I smell like corn tortillas. Why do white people do the things they do to tacos?
“Sleep,” my body says.
“Write,” my brain says.
But now we’re slipping at the edge
Holding something we don’t need
All this delusion in our heads
Is gonna bring us to our knees
Grieving is the process of building the bridge to forgetting to remember. From body to shadow. You soak it up, you wring it out. All the details and all the stories and all the memories. They drain from me. I stack them up. I bleed them: drip drip drip. So much, I bleed them. My senses join in. All the smells of you, the sounds of you, the angles of you, they seep out too. I eradicate. I purge. I expunge the record. Taking stock for a winter that is long overdue. I haul you out to fold you up. Here you are, like all my things before a big trip. In the suitcase you go. It’s coming– the departure: I forget to remember. My sentimentality kicks in, the last gear before take-off. I smile at all the times, because I know they’re going away. I’m going away. Sometimes the easiest thing is to say goodbye because you know the feeling of freedom that awaits. I forget to remember. The ecstasy has faded and the pain has faded and everything that felt so right but not quite right has gone with it. I forget to remember. All that felt so potent, all that felt so necessary is gone now. Has gone now. I’ll know when you’re around cause I know the sound of your heart, but that is all I will recognize. The rest is hazy, fuzzy, like that summer day when you were too hot to properly think or bend or roll. So hot the heat lapped at your brain like the gentlest of deaths. The summertime lobotomy. I don’t have to try anymore. I forget to remember that sense of vertigo, and I embrace the weightlessness, the lightness of being.