How To Move On

F O R G E T / R E M E M B E R

Edit 7/27/18: The original short story that inspired this creative essay has been posted at the end of this book!

-

Of all the impossibilities in this world, there is one that I can't be at peace with. At least, not now. It is beyond my comprehension, why of all the trivial things in my life, he is a fact I can't erase. I mean, yeah, he's given me a lot to remember. But I'm usually not one to own anything that ever lasts. I mean, I easily forget dates, phone numbers; I don't know who I sat with in first-grade English class. But his face is as clear as the sky is blue. It is a simple truth (one that I can't swallow): the trees are green, my skin is brown, and I cannot forget the person I am cruelly attached to.

His hair is curly and thick, like cotton candy that was cooked too sweet. I run my fingers through his scalp in the littlest of moments, trying to figure out what goes on in his head. A mystery even the greatest of sleuths can't solve. Was I an exception?

To him, his eyebrows are just a patch of hair that just so happens to grow above his eyes. Like weeds that never get plucked out of the garden. But I see an army, falling into straight lines, ready to fight, when his thoughts cloud his brain. They tense, and I can hear the soldiers shouting their battle-cries, but the dark clouds fade away soon after. The squadron dissembles, and they go back to being just weeds.

And his eyes are the oceans. The iris, waves. They weren't just one color, not a monochromatic blue, but a cacophony of colors and shades and hues. One for every sliver of emotion to ever swim through the waters. With bliss, I find myself drowning in them everyday. I wade and coalesce in the deepest waters, hoping I never resurface. I wish to stay in his gaze until the midnight stars lose their fire.

Those eyes have seen me in my worst. Countless times, I'd admit. And I've seen him spilling the oceans, too, at times when it was just me and him, and the world was chaos and ruin outside. I saw the colors dripping down his cheeks, and I wiped it off with my frail hands, each time. I remember seeing them glisten in the dying sun, how his pain was reflected in mine and how our colors always faded to gray.

His nose is a bridge. I envy the way it pierces the air as he walks into the room. How it strikes, how it brings symmetry to plains and valleys of his face. I have walked those lands with my heart on my sleeve. I must have left it there, it must have dropped. All I know is that I crossed that bridge, and never looked back. Maybe I should've, and I maybe it was my fault that I so carelessly allowed my heart to fall.

I have yet to know the full salvation of his lips. The voice that comes out of it, how the sound of him makes the birds burst into song. There exists a symphony in his words, a silent spell that pulls me in deeper. I can almost hear a prayer in between the letters, a call to heaven, to fix his broken soul. If only he could see the angel in his midst, the one who dreams about him at night, the one who sings about him in the day, the one who fills these pages with his memory.

The smell of him is my calming drug. I find it in all the embraces he gave me before, and I keep finding it in the most unusual places, a constant reminder of his lingering hold on me. His shirt, his chest, I lay my head on it as I inhale his retribution, the soft, musky scent of curiosity, empathy, and thunder. And I pray to the clocks that they slow down their ticking, that it would mean the world to me if their hands froze at every moment we were together. Just so I could drink his presence a little longer. So I could save the morsels for later, for when he leaves... and for when he's gone.

So maybe I'll never learn to forget him. There are too many stories, carefully woven into the threads of his calloused skin. So much of it, but not enough time to burn them all. Perhaps he will always be a candle flame at the back of my mind, flickering through my subconscious, meeting me in my dreams. Because his name is poetry, and I was taught to hold words close, wherever I go.

I'll keep remembering him, I'm sure. Even when the armies die, the oceans disappear, the bridges collapse, the birds stop singing, and he has long-forgotten my name.

x

This text was inspired by a short story I wrote called "Forget", which I have already posted here on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/story/127253291-forget-short-story

If you liked this, please give it a vote, and feel free to comment on whatever you feel about the story - it would mean a lot to me. Merci beaucoup et je t'aime!