The Long Forgetting

Love is so short a flicker, a breath between lifetimes. You touched my hand, and the world rearranged itself to make room for a feeling I didn’t know was missing. It bloomed fast, wild, like stars collapsing into each other without apology.

But forgetting oh, forgetting is the slowest thing I’ve ever known. It lingers like perfume on a coat I can’t throw away. Like echoes in a room you haven’t stepped into for years but still own. Every sunrise forgets you just to remember again by sunset.

I’ve rewritten your name a thousand ways in silence. Burned your laughter into constellations I can’t unsee. And time time has not softened the truth, only carved it deeper: you were real. And you were brief.

They say we heal. But what they forget to mention is that love leaves fossils, not just scars. And I still trip on the bones of you every time I try to walk forward.

So yes love is short. But forgetting you? That’s a story I’m still writing in the quiet of every morning without you.