It hasn't been so long, but already I forget the timbre of your voice. I forget the smell of your apartment, like exotic cooking snd Ivory soap...or was it more like cinnamon and laundry detergent? The distinction isn't much, but in my nose, those smells are distinct: one is you and one is just a way I wish things were, when I think of you. Were your eyes blue? Or were they grey, shifting in the sunlight? Your fingers were gentle, I recall that for sure, but was the skin rough or smooth, neglected for the sake of manliness, or cared for as meticulously as you had cared for me? It has been so long that I cannot recall the way your lips would twitch when you were proud of yourself, and I can't remember the kinds of things that used to make you particularly proud.
They say that in time, I won't remember all the things you whispered with your mouth pressed against my ear, the things we dreamed together under our blanket, those long summer nights. That I'll wash a load of blankets and not remember which one was "ours." In time, I won't remember where you came from or why you left.
When I think that I might forget any of this, I hold on tight, wrapping my fingers around you like holding onto a beachful of sand.