The art of being forgotten

You talk about strength as if it she was that easy to gather. I often misplaced her in things I found familiar. She seeped through my fingers in the face of fear and sorrow, like sand in my hands- gone within seconds.

The sun sets and rises, a day goes after the next until they’ve decided time had cleared your debts and set you rid of the blame of your shambled heart. He tells you to keep silent and play dead on the other line, because you should know better than to fall down the abyss of questioning what the dreaded ‘L’ word actually meant. You’ve never seen it. You’ve thought you’ve felt it. But what you know now makes you believe, you must have thought wrong.

Every silence to an unanswered memory creates an echo you cannot stop hearing, and it haunts you in your sleep. You are indebted to time, because deep down you know it couldn’t have been done any other way than his way. You are grateful, taking his cure as if it was opium, morphine for the pain that seems to ebb of what’s left of your heart.

But yet you cringe all knowing that he will bring the day you anticipated and dreaded at the same time, and even more so all at once.

That the line that keeps calling will learn to remain silent. That there will be nothing left from the seeds he scattered to grow far away from you with a different sun. That there will be no reminder of what you might have been.

That you are, eventually, forgotten.

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