This place is freezing, and I don’t know if it’s the lack of your presence or the AC set to 70,
but I curl myself back into this twin duvet and let my own warmth suffice.
The excess bedding nestled in my arms,
I hold onto a fuzzy memory of you.
Your face is vague and blurred,
a fogged mirror.
I watch you try to speak but each word is muted,
since the only memory I have of your voice is from a few old videos from 2009.
You’re too far from me to touch,
since my subconcious is too scared to admit the fact that your chin would no longer be able to rest on my head
and instead, our eyes would now meet evenly.
It’s been 2,010 days since I last saw you and
I’m scared that at this point,
aside from the Facebook photo albums and words you wrote,
I don’t genuinely remember you.
I read somehwere that each time you recall a memory, you aren’t actually recalling the event itself;
you are instead recalling the last time you thought of it
and each time,
it gets slightly more diluted and dissolved.
Versions of memories shift so fluidly and are altered so easily,
all constantly vulnerable and undedected.
What if each sacred moment I have spent the last five and a half years holding onto has been entirely fabricated,
completely withdrawn from reality and the truth of who you were?
If you were to somehow walk past me,
what if I didn’t recognize you?
I want to promise myself I would,
that any thought of not knowing my own mother’s stance is farcical
but I can’t ignore the fact that I don’t remember
the way you said my name
whether or not you had freckles that matched mine.
I don’t want to have to remember you–
I want to be able to walk upstairs and see you laughing over misspelled Scrabble words and Diet Coke.
I want to come home to you.
I will always look for your arms in the tide and pleade with the sea to give you back.
I will never stop mourning you.