i slice him out
from photographs and conversations
but he still manages to visit my thoughts
when i drift off during the evening
months pass,
memories dwindling into a fog
that refuses to leave me alone
twirling around my feet
when i dare to be alone
the touch,
the reach of friendship is such
a fragile fragment and yet it seems that
it threatens to shatter me
unfortunately,
the distance makes removing the bandaid somewhat of a ripping until it eventually feels like rubbing sandpaper into a gaping wound
i’m content
i’m thoughtful, i’m conscious
i’m aware
and still the background ache
of being forgotten
pains me
like a dull throbbing
a queasy paper cut
it follows my very nature
like a perfume i put on each morning
even with all that, if it ever stops...
that means i too have forgotten
and sometimes i worry
that’s even worse
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