remembering to forget

I feel like it hasn’t happened yet because it never does, it never sticks. I always knew one day would be the last time we ever spoke to each other, but it felt like as long as we stayed the same dysfunctional pair, time didn’t move. I’d wait out on your porch in the cold until you noticed me, then drag my body up the same stairs to see what had changed about you this time. I’d forget it on your bedroom floor, and you’d always forgive me when I came to get it back.

The tricky part now is learning to go on without all the bits and pieces I never got back, because I thought I’d be around again. I wonder if you tossed all my things out: the toothbrush, my makeup, and the comb. My letters, drawings, and the little dog figurine I made in the kitchen window. I spread myself quite thickly over everything you’d allow me in. Give me an inch, I’d take a mile. I liked tricking myself into believing I was permanent in that way.

I don’t think you could clean it all out, though, even if you really tried.