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D K Feb 2014
when I write, I think about the things I will never feel again, like stepping out of my bedroom to my mother resting her head on my stepfather’s shoulder, quiet, in the hallway, or how I almost lost my virginity at three o’clock in the afternoon to a boy with skin smooth and pale as seashells clawed open, or having the future be only illustrated in tomorrows, or seeing the indian ocean for the first time, and having it be nowhere near as bright in the stories I had been told.

and if I had made up all those memories who is to say that they’re not real? if a single sentence can take me along coastlines and through waters, who is to say that I cannot make my body the sail, and with the wind filling it, continue long after the place where memory ends and absence begins? if I, perhaps, disappeared on the 19th of february, who is to say, on paper, that it is not the 19th of february that disappeared instead?
D K Feb 2014
why is it that you only remember kissing?

or fumbling with plastic buttons in dim hallways, or folding his pants alongside your dresses
or laughing, or heading home to a bed you both could call yours.
why is it that the nights you spend crying in the next room- why does that fade?
you remain always dusty. god, all those days and months seperated by borders and waters you spent rationing these precious packages of recollection, closing your eyes and watching from a distance, as a younger, softer you rested her head on a pair of shoulders that were always there, a pair of shoulders that grew arms to hold you with, and a mouth to kiss you with, and fingers that would trace you and taste you and smudge you. now you know everything about love with nothing to show for it. now the safest place is nowhere near you.

you remember reaching out in the middle of the night, you remember why you quit smoking, you remember how he tasted, how he pulled you closer under the covers on cold sunday mornings. you would make room now when you would never make room before. now that it's too late, now that you are not fine. you remember kissing.

— The End —