my mother raised me 
to be a practical girl 
to discard what no longer has utility 
and so 
i remember all the advice you gave me
and forget the sound of your voice.

​

i can no longer recall 
the curve of your smile
what your laugh sounded like 
(what made you laugh like that in the first place?)
but i can recite your apple id password in my sleep.
your iphone is still useful, you see

​

i didn’t want to grieve you so now 
i grieve lost memories of you—
and when you step into a room and feel the absence of something, 
doesn’t it linger, like a presence unseen.

​

i want to walk backwards out of the room where i keep all my secrets, 
i want my childhood back,
i can no longer drag its dead weight forward.
i want to lean my head against the floral wallpaper of my bedroom 
and wait for your knock on my door. 
i want just one more chance to get it right.

​

i didn’t realize, when i buried you 
that i also buried everything you touched,
now all my souvenirs, are covered in mud—

this dirt underneath my nails,
your echoes underneath this dirt,
soil so smooth and barren 
that nobody will ever be able to tell
there was once a garden here,
i got over you a little too well.

​

i miss you sometimes 
but i no longer recall 
what exactly i miss anymore—
you can run so much faster and further, you see 
when there are no details to trip over.
so when my mother asks me 
if i remember it exactly, i tell her
your credit card pin
instead of how 
i dreamt about holding your hand last night—
it was so cold,
and your fingertips were so blue
but that is hardly useful now, is it?
and you raised me
to be a practical girl. 

​

i will forget by tomorrow, i promise.