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this girl
it's funny—
dying so many times
for someone that forgot your name
last year.
i like to think that you’ll recognize,
my laugh,
my smell,
my heart.
but your eyes evade my memory, and
your smile is lost to history.
the shade of your hair?
i could give a dang about the shade of your hair.
i merely crave your arms wrapped around my torso, saying
“i know you. i know this girl.
i know her.”
your name is a prayer to me,
you, you, you–
in my dreams,
in the air passed between me and my cold pillow,
in the lip gloss i wore around you only.
in the scent of the sea,
and the funny, purple rug around our feet.
so, in the space separating my heart from yours,
a centimeter
or oceans apart,
remember this girl.
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This piece is about forgetting. What details truly matter to people upon meeting? What do they remember? I see pieces of others in my mind, a mosaic. But is that them-- a distorted, broken puzzle? Or do I forget their very soul on parting word?