June 2nd, 2021
In brief instances that I see your face, I cannot construct a moving picture. You feel like a painting I'm standing too far to touch-but an unpleasant one to look at, so I move to the next. I don't remember what it was like to have your gaze inches from mine, and then to see your lips move followed by your voice. The sound of your vocal chords isn't stuck to the wall of my brain anymore. My memory of your motion is in pieces, and I only remember the time when I wish you would stay still. And yet the pretty pictures in my head of things I wished to be true are sometimes all I can see. But all of it, every single second of the time we spent together, feels like it almost never happened. It's on the cusp of being a dream. On the brink of being an illusion. So whenever I see your face on accident, a vague feeling takes me over. I do not miss the role I played, my convenience and blind loyalty to you. I certainly do not miss the role you played, your splotchy and unfaithful attitude towards me. The brief instances you cross my mind, only then I wonder how you're doing. Only then I tell myself that you're happy. Only then I wish you a miserable life. But always, always, always, I forget what we were. I forget what you did. I forget what I did. I forget I loved you. I forget you almost loved me.
R.K.
YOU ARE READING
Holeheart
PoetryI am the forgiver. I am the destroyer. I'm not at fault, but I deserve to be. Poetry and Prose Volume V 2021 DISCONTINUED
