Slow Format
I am oozing cliche now.
Everything is expected. I see the future.
It's Monday morning and your love for me has retreated further.
By Tuesday you will have forgotten the color of my eyes.
By Wednesday my middle name, by Thursday my birthday.
We sit in your father's basement office and go through his trinkets one by one.
I put that desperate poem in his casket whose words burned up with your love for me.
I used to give you gifts and you would break into a joy I have never seen a woman feel or show
and now you tell me those feelings were wrapped in confusion and worry.
You are making me forget who I am as you forget who I was.
I forget who I am I will not forget who I am. I will forget who you are.
You are closed like a living clam now, tight, stubborn, will not smile or shine.
By Friday you will no longer see my face
By Saturday you will have forgotten everything.
There will be an ocean thrashing our last memories against the sharp rocks anyway.
Have you already forgotten that hike down the Matt Davis Trail, the ocean below us?
Your teeth sank into so many fresh pieces of fish with a smile on your face.
Can you remember the flesh of my hand on your
hand, my bear hugs around you, how I looked at your fingers
how I worshiped your reserved nature, how your smile and laugh brought me joy?
I have forgotten it all now. It is filed away with a rubber band or a chip clip. I'm going to do a slow format and there will be nothing left and you will be released and
can fly away again without memory of anything, a bird whose half-wings have grown stronger
Everything here is risk-free and full of opportunity, no taxes, no rain, no pressure.
Death-free.
Copyright 2007
Do not reprint without permission from the author
