You asked me if
I remembered your name,
and I missed the syllables and vowels
holding place,
pushing away space,
making a sound in
my mouth that resonated
with the word that I called you,
when you were
younger still
and wondrous.
I had forgotten
the shape my mouth
made when
it moved it's way
around the vowels
and
consonants that pulled
themselves together
across a tag and
I lost memory of how
your name came to me
in the dizziness
of sleep and exhaustion,
how it escaped
my lips in a mellow murmur,
as you plucked
a hazy goodbye out of it.
I thought of the last time
I said it out loud, the way
it felt in my mouth and the taste it left,
and how
you took away it's meaning and
made it sound forbidden.
So I told you that I didn't
remember the name
I used to say to steady myself,
inked to a piece of my skin,
I told you that I forgot the taste of it
in my mouth; sweet and sickly
and I told you that I had forgotten
it in many mouths since.
I plucked away the shrug from
your shoulders and wore it on mine
as you walked away, down a street
into someone else's car, as
I only said a familiar chant,
that made my lips quiver
with reminiscence; a soft tremble
for who I was.