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WHY DOES IT GO AWAY?

 

I hate that you’ve become unfamiliar to my body.
You have become unfamiliar to my memory, to my skin, to my eyes.

I hate that your voice is like another’s mouth speaking.
Your voice is like grating, sharp stones, and agony.
I hate that our peace only exists in a past.

Past: Another dimension that I can no longer access.

I’ve walked through a door that disappeared from the wall. All that was has become unfamiliar to me.

You and I had made a home in our seconds, turned minutes, turned hours together.

We’d put down new carpet and sealed the windows. We’d finished the basement and repaired the shingles.

We’d measured the kitchen for just the right table. We’d chosen only colors that mixed well with the Maple.

You tended the garden, and I painted in the attic.

Our laughter was abundant, or dissension was slight.

You knew

and I knew

and we knew

it was right.

I hate that you’ve become unfamiliar to me.

Like the walls have been painted alabaster white, like the carpets have been ripped up.

Like the windows have been boarded over and the keys have been melted down into nothing.

They say that the body takes count, that the body remembers, but my body does not remember you.

My memory has someone else in it.  The footpaths we made, the trails in my mind, they are gone and long covered with overgrowth.

My eyes have no sight for you; they are blind when it comes to you.

My breath comes back into me when I think of you; I can not breathe when I think of you.

I have become that melted key. I have become a key melted down into nothing.

The door is gone, the house is gone,

You are gone

I am gone

we are gone.

And I hate that.
I hate, hate, hate that.

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