I didn’t willfully start out forgetting you. It was something that just happened, an occurrence that took place over time, little by little, so I didn’t notice it was happening until someone asked me about you and it took me a minute to recall all the details necessary to answer the question.
I had to be nudged to remember. You’re no longer something that’s at the forefront of my brain, no longer a constant amid the myriad memories I need to keep handy. And while I can recall you if prodded, it gets harder and harder to remember all the necessary things about you that I’d need to forge a memory. I’ve forgotten years worth of stories, left them in a corner somewhere I don’t have to look at them. They’re probably gathering dust and cobwebs now, the pages of whatever book we wrote turning yellow and brown, the colors of soft bruises.
I forgot what you look like. I forgot the color of your hair, the color of your eyes, the very weight of you. I don’t remember the sound of your voice, what your whisper was like or how you sounded when mad. I just remember that the whispers were less frequent than the times you turned your volume all the way up. I don’t remember what was said.
There are months and years that are blank now, places where I rubbed a metaphorical eraser so hard I made a hole in the notes that made up our lives, leaving just a small smudge. Anything that…
