Nights like these I wish I didn't remember things so clearly. It all seems to disturbingly tangible. As though, if I just tried hard enough I could reach out and touch them. Sometimes I wake up as if she's lying right there with her lips in the hollow above my collarbone. For a blurry half-second I wonder why I can't feel her breath there. I don't move, don't open my eyes. Remember countless nights of insomnia; wide awake in the warm night, the weight of her down my left side, her hand on my chest. Eventually, through the soft dark the same muttered words as always "stop thinking, it's too loud" and she rolls away, collapses onto her back, smoothing the hair from her face with the back of her forearm. Flips the sheet up and I can hear her smiling in the dark as the cotton drifts back down slowly. Press a kiss to her temple, an apology. Hand on my cheek, scratch of stubble against her palm, lips on mine; curved in a smile.
I'm looking for a tattoo artist, a good one. I met one today, recommended, we talked about how to finish a piece, about how I left in the middle of it. She traced her fingers over the lines on my wrist. Oddly intimate. Couldn't remember why.
Couldn't remember why.
It hit me on the train on the way home and I was doubly appalled. I couldn't remember. It's just the beginning of things slipping away, it will happen and it will hurt every time but this first forgetting... This first desperate grasping for information left me speechless. Remembering on the train; her fingers tracing lines of oil onto my fresh tattoo. Inspecting it, memorizing it the way we learned each others scars and ink. So relieved that I remembered, at last. And still so upset about forgetting. Hunched over on the plastic seat, flickering lights of the tube, hands folded on my cane, head on the back of my hands. Eyes closed. Can almost feel her fingers again. Remember her laughing and pointing a stern finger at me as she discovered the hidden letters, the date. Her name, hidden in the crests of a wave. Anniversary tucked away along the edge of a lotus petal. She told me not to, but I couldn't resist. Two years later she was pointing the same finger at me, making me promise to put our daughter's birthday in there somewhere. She drew a flower, an Iris, to hold her name, date of birth. She studied Japanese, lived there for six months, explained Hanakotoba and researched flowers to include in the design. There's space for more, luckily. A Red Spider Lily*, Sweet Pea** and of course, her Iris.
Missed my stop. Walked home with her fingers ghosting up my arm.
*Red Spider Lily - never to meet again
Lotus - far from the one he loves
**Sweet Pea - goodbye
Iris - good news, glad tidings
I'm looking for a tattoo artist, a good one. I met one today, recommended, we talked about how to finish a piece, about how I left in the middle of it. She traced her fingers over the lines on my wrist. Oddly intimate. Couldn't remember why.
Couldn't remember why.
It hit me on the train on the way home and I was doubly appalled. I couldn't remember. It's just the beginning of things slipping away, it will happen and it will hurt every time but this first forgetting... This first desperate grasping for information left me speechless. Remembering on the train; her fingers tracing lines of oil onto my fresh tattoo. Inspecting it, memorizing it the way we learned each others scars and ink. So relieved that I remembered, at last. And still so upset about forgetting. Hunched over on the plastic seat, flickering lights of the tube, hands folded on my cane, head on the back of my hands. Eyes closed. Can almost feel her fingers again. Remember her laughing and pointing a stern finger at me as she discovered the hidden letters, the date. Her name, hidden in the crests of a wave. Anniversary tucked away along the edge of a lotus petal. She told me not to, but I couldn't resist. Two years later she was pointing the same finger at me, making me promise to put our daughter's birthday in there somewhere. She drew a flower, an Iris, to hold her name, date of birth. She studied Japanese, lived there for six months, explained Hanakotoba and researched flowers to include in the design. There's space for more, luckily. A Red Spider Lily*, Sweet Pea** and of course, her Iris.
Missed my stop. Walked home with her fingers ghosting up my arm.
*Red Spider Lily - never to meet again
Lotus - far from the one he loves
**Sweet Pea - goodbye
Iris - good news, glad tidings
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