We sleep in beds that aren’t ours
and use pillows formed to the shapes
of other people’s necks.

The curve of their bodies leave
shadows and memories. I feel
them seep into my skin as I sleep
and I wash them clean in the lake
in the dewy morning.

We make beds that aren’t ours
and rest in a sun that feels borrowed.
Blankets and linens smell clean,
but not like us. They are soft and worn
and cradle easily against our bodies.

We notice frames full of photographs
of people who aren’t our family.
Notes left on the fridge and drinking glasses
with fingerprints different from our own
kept in cabinets within our reach.

I eat fruit out of a bowl and wonder how
many others have tasted the iron of an old spoon
on their tongue.

At night, before the sun goes down
we ride bikes with broken seats that sit too low
and use a canoe that is dusty with another family’s story.

I sought to forget one
Where others slept
Six feet below
Pristine lawns
And glistening headstones
That winked cheerfully
In the summer sun.
The gravestones were like stately soldiers
All in a line, the young like a mirror
And the old, stooped like the elderly
Telling the story of many rains, many storms
And many moons.
Their tales would momentarily
Fill my ears
My mind's desperate eye
To block a face
That still dwelt amongst the breathing.
A face whose significance
Needed to die
For me to continue leaving.

I remembered the other
Somewhere deep,
Leaning like an old painting
Against the inner curve of my skull.
That precious work of art
Filled my thoughts
While my feet dragged down
Countless miles
Dirt roads
Hot asphalt
And trodden trails.
There in my head,
The lost one,
The keeper of eyes like the sea
Existed only where my memories roamed.
He was not telling stories with the others
Six feet under
Nor did he pace amongst the masses
Wandering as I do...
He existed in the wind
In the air I tread through
In my desperate attempt
To have somewhere to visit.

Remembering to forget.
Forgetting to remember.