I remember it all, actually.
More than I'd like to have.
I remember waking up to
The scent of breakfast
I’d soon find was made for one.

I remember walking down
The stairs to lock eyes with you
As you were opening the door.
I remember the feeling
Of dread that crushed me
Under its weight as
I understood your gaze.
I don’t remember being sick.

Even though you were gone,
I remember the dark shade of
Canary that reflected from
The plate in front of me and
Tinted our home.
I don’t remember the lights being broken.

I remember hearing your voice
Call me from our room.
I remember the sharp ringing that
Endlessly reflected off the
Carpet walls of our home
Despite the silence.
I don’t remember picking up the fork.

I remember when
My senses returned to me.
When I was cured.
When the lights were fixed.
When I put the fork down.
I remember the
World refusing to warp any longer.
I remember the scent of
A breakfast made for one.
Your final gesture of kindness.
I don’t remember deserving it.

I remember sitting.
I remember eating.
I remember the
Overwhelming taste of guilt,
The taste of wetness,
The taste of salt.
I remember the taste of
French toast.
Though,
I don’t remember crying.