Soft lips, the absence,
cold hands touching a boiling ***,
all of it overwhelming.
Lisps, nothing but blurred
s's and slurred whispers
of reassurance and love.
So much blind love, so much
lying, so much forgetting,
so much resting in the
space between the absence.
I loved you once, then I
forgot, and loved you again,
and forgot, and loved you
again in memory, I have forgotten.
The absences are wavering;
they teeter like a fresh vase on the edge
near an unruly cat,
nothing tethering the events
of the slurred words from
soft LIsPS, but the
love almost did.
So I think.
The absence, or space, between being with you or not, remembering things or not, feeling or not.
