Bent Words

Bent Words

February 15, 2008

Like a phone number that hasn’t been dialed for many years, he forgets.

It’s easier for him. He doesn’t have to stand in the same places they once stood. He doesn’t have to turn around in his own kitchen, wondering what he came there for, lost for being transported back in time. He doesn’t see the space they occupied or the proof of it upon the wall; with arms crossed and feet spread when he knew he had to go but couldn’t bring his lips to say so.

The morning sun doesn’t spill through the window where he wakes up now, as though it were shining a new brilliance into each strand of her hair. Her face peeking out from under a blanket she stole sometime during the night, her leg touching his so she would always know he was there.

The comforting scent of coffee is an ordinary thing – not a phenomenon which catches him off guard in new day, bringing him back to her ritual of heavy, exacting scoops. He does not get lost in the queer collection of mugs or the places from which they came. And he won’t recall the way she worried over strength or waited for the shaking of his hands.

He forgets.

He forgets her favorite spot by the door filled with furious hugs hello and good-bye. He doesn’t see the finger prints on the window where she pressed her face as he left, taillights reflected in the squint of her eyes.

He slips through a whole slew of days without mentioning her name or having it mentioned to him. He doesn’t fear the phone will ring with memories or reminders and he cannot recall the last time her name casually danced off the tongue of a friend. No one he knows inquires after her or throws out a moment he can visualize as clearly as footprints in new snow.

He’s not the messenger to all those she left behind.

The stars in the sky don’t trickle down from the evening, showering his face with the hopes and dreams they once shared. A saddened smile won’t occur to those lips when the fireflies set out upon the night like daring little voyeurs happening upon their secret spot in time. And what of the miles they raced together?

He forgets.

Her cheer has been lost to the craze of the crowd.

The tremble of her skin has left his fingertips.

The pride of her gaze has been burned from his memory.

The passion has been wrung out of the years passing by.

He forgets.

But how shall I?

Written at 8:45 p.m.