plastic flowers

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