The other day, I wrote about you, quiet words just for me. My journal is heavy with the weight of thousands upon thousands of quiet words. And loud words. And sweet ones. Angry ones. Violent ones. Broken ones.
I couldn’t remember your name.
It was a shock. A physical shock. I felt it in the pit of my stomach. A kind of panic.
I was still for a few moments, probing around the inside of my head. Trying to find it.
I realised that I had gone past the sweet gentle memory I had aimed to keep of you, and you had disappeared far far back in that dusty drawer in that dark room that I hadn’t visited for so long.
A ghost, transparent, not even real any more.
I am in touch with my ex loves, but not you, not you. It was too painful, too harsh, too much, and you slipped away. A good decision, yours, really. I am bad at the void.
I remembered your name at last, with some relief. I could have looked it up, of course, but that wasn’t the point.
My memories are always snapshots, feelings, moments, and I write partly because I know they will slip away. I can’t be trusted with truth or with history.
But now those that were yours are like tattered prayer flags, stripped of colour, unravelling in the elements, barely recognisable as the bright fluttery defiant beauties they once were. Touched and handled and worn out and slowly disappearing even as they still hang in the breeze.
A little melancholy lives there still, soft and accusatory: THAT I will probably keep until the last.