Bookmark #250

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sleep to the thought of you or wake up to a dream or two. If I were forced to lie, I’d lie about the times I think of you or what you’re up to during the day. I’ll tell you it barely happens.

Truth is, and I wish this were mere exaggeration, you’re always on my mind. If my mind were a room, you were always lingering near the door or moving about from one corner to another, doing your own thing. It used to irk me, but over the years, I’ve learned to let you do what you may.

So, as I go about my day spamming cups of coffee, working on things I love, drudging through things I hate, laughing, crying, going into bouts of anxiety, spiralling, catching a hold of myself, and managing to sleep just in time, I let your face grace each moment in my thought; the sound of your voice often becomes the very thing that brings me back to myself.

It has always been this way, and I used to think it will always be this way, too. But sometimes, I forget what you look like. Of course, a blurry image of a face persists but those details like the tiny, barely visible mole near your nose or the one near your eye are lost. Like an old, weary negative with scratches, I have started to lose the full picture.

I often forget what you sound like so I have to replay you saying my name over and over again like an old cassette that gets stuck in the player. Of course, I can take it out and fix the tape, but there’s something about how you say my name that makes me wonder if that’s how I want to remember your voice.

But, I have started to forget the rest. A lot of it is like letting something truly important die but never realising it until you’re at the funeral. If I was honest, we’ve been through more than one of those. I still wonder where you are or what you’re doing. I wonder if you think about me, too.

I just wanted to tell you, I have nothing but love for you. A sort of love I can barely even put in words, but I have to try. It has started becoming easier, though: letting you go. It dawned on me when it was raining the other day. I visited the grave of your memory again.

A flower had grown on it.

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