Sometimes I forget that you are real. I forget that you aren't a fragment of my imagination and the curly haired boy I see out of the corner of my eye isn't a ghost. It's you.
Sometimes I forget that I didn't imagine that smell of old spice and olay body soap mixed together to form the perfect aroma that lingered a little too long on my clothes after I went home.
Sometimes I forget that I didn't dream of those picnic dates we had on your bed while you played video games and I slept in your lap.
I convinced myself that I made you up because it was easier than admitting that I pushed you away even when you told me that you didn't like comitment.
I try to forget yesterday. I don't want to think of the familiar feeling of my head in your lap and your hand on my back, tracing small circles... because that means intamacy. It means you still love me and we are stuck in this small void of forever and I love you.
I try to convince myself you aren't real.