There was a time when I could outline the frame of your face just from memory. I could picture the scar etched below your left eye, the patch of hair that grew in, tough, apart from the rest of your body. I was able to keenly describe the melody of your voice. But now, I can’t remember what it sounds like. I can’t remember if your cheeks swelled up when you were venting with anger. I can’t remember if your laugh used to make me giggle. I can’t remember the feel of your fingertips trailing along my tail bone.
I can’t remember if I used to like it.
Suddenly, what I thought I’d never let go of, seemed to let go of me. Whether it’s time, or growth, or falling in love with someone new, what used to mean so much to me – what was once me and you – evaporated so devastatingly that I can’t even remember a time when I felt sad about you leaving. Isn’t that funny? How something so small can change everything? How time, eventually, does heal all wounds?
Time exists now in a way that can only be described as before you and after you. Before you, though, is foggy. I ask myself some nights what it was there that attracted me. Then I try to convince myself it was something about your lips, or your laugh, or your strong, yet benevolent touch, and then I’m lost because I can’t remember those things if I tried. The after you is what seems to capture me most. It’s those moments when I fell asleep, cocooned to a body-shaped pillow, harvesting tears that fell gently onto the fabric. I know I felt heartbreak. I know I felt sadness.
But I can’t feel it anymore.
They’ve evaporated like lost love condensation. I’m in the forlorn plateau, cognizant of remembering your face, but living the conundrum, of not really being able to picture it.