A Week of Forgetting

A week of forgetting, well maybe six days,
were spent pretending:
I don’t have,
I don’t have,
I don’t miss
you.
I do love—but, from a
safe distance, where I can
sit in the self-enveloping numbness
that embodied six months
of separation
and the Unknown fear of
an unsafe distance.
I felt I could do it again, and I did,
again and again, searching for
Nothing to feel.
Nothing to miss.
Maybe something to love—in passing,
in notion, in abstract.
Numbness for the sake of
sun, fun, and
some sort of rejuvenation.
Numbness for the sake
of another, of the one you love,
and miss, and feel
and—nothing in the form of
condensed powered, in the form of
haze and sleep and sleep and sleep.
Self-inflicted slumber! No one to blame
but self-pity, self-befuddlement;
because all I want
is for we to be
happy.
I would go a lifetime of forgetting,
I thought, and it whispered
its sweet nothings to me—
A Lifetime of Numbness,
of Nothing
of nothing
nothing.
But I remembered
my humanity,
it breathed itself into my
soft taps, growing ever swifter,
tap tap tapping out everythings to you.
The seal broke,
the dam collapsed,
its walls were made of smoke and
mirrors and they shattered and the glass cried out:
a week! a lifetime!
A lifetime of you.

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