Months go by and I
forget your existence for entire days;
move through my life with minimal time
devoted to your actions
without me to watch them.
Always, though, you reappear,
your real fleshy self standing next to me,
asking questions about my whereabouts,
always something cracks.
The flimsy candy-glass surrounding my fragile skin,
or the train of thought that had, earlier, been moving so
smoothly, without you to lie across the tracks.
You turn everything into something I no longer control.
You unknowingly bury yourself under my skin,
it's like walking barefoot through the desert
night, no flashlight;
you've become the plants that flower with thorns and drop
painful berries onto the ground.
How did you protect yourself from me?
I get the feeling you haven't.
I think you get just as shaken by me
as I do by you.
I want to be a snowstorm and block the exit to the dark room of your mind,
the one that contains all of the memories of me, with you.
I can remember them all, every single one,
I know you the same as I know every other thing in my life
that has broken my heart;
a moving painting in my mind,
the paint that shapes you covers every cell of my mind
with the sorrow of losing something that I know, now, has to be.
I will forget you, again,
and then remember you the next time I hear your voice,
see your face,
want to pull you to me.