I do not have access to fact. The truth is I will remember you and not remember why. I wish she was here to remind me of what I’m missing. Details leave me as well as the persistent heat of year long summer endures, reinforcing the blatant query of forgone. The once known gently shrugs tired arms and I am loose paper. I am impressed with a deep instinctual need for movement but the reality is I move less and less each day. My ego longs to move on but keeps returning to the bed I don’t belong in. It is covered in owl feathers and blue petals. Someone else occupies it now in another city. I am thirsty, but everything is bittersweet. It is always bittersweet. This tang always like copper in my mouth. A tired hand always spins the spoon. Images overlap of her wet face and sad arms. She is happy now. You can only believe this uncertainty. The truth is there is no truth. Only knowing. This always keeps us looking. Something inside keeps scratching, always twining the immutable self, eating its way out. You have a name for it, but you’ve forgotten. Her arms are forgotten, only now the things she touched. Like the morning. In me always morning, the lament for impermissible time leaks out between the floorboards in blush white light. Even now there is no explanation.