Forgotten Glimpse

September 15, 2011
By cellogirl GOLD, San Diego, California
cellogirl GOLD, San Diego, California
10 articles 0 photos 4 comments

I catch a glimpse, just out the corner of my eye. But I know that
it’s you. And the corners of my mouth twitch, involuntarily.
I’d like to pretend that I don’t notice you.
I have a new hand on the small of my back,
and kiss in that perfect nook behind my ear.
That you discovered.
Your presence cannot change that alone, but do all
good things come wrapped in shiny new packages but tied with black bows?
Advertising the novelty of a pain free past, and I wish I could
forget you.
We’re not right. You are a wave; I am the shore. All we do
is pull.
We would never have won this battle.
There are new fingers fingering my spine, brushing back a stray wisp,
and whispering sweet nothings into the crevice of my neck.
I am happy.
But I’d like to forget.
It’s so hard to forget the one
who found you.

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