I write this in the hopes that one day
I will forget.
Forget the color of your eyes
and the feel of your hand in mine
and the scruff on your jaw
and the words that you wrote
and the words that you said
and the expression on your face
       when you looked at me
and the songs that you played
and the songs that you sang
and the games that you played
       with me
       without me
       and against me
and the tattoo on your arm
and the feel of your arm
       as I clutched it
and the feel of your arms
       around my waist
and the kisses you gave me
and the kisses you took from me
and the firsts and the lasts
and everything in between
and the longing
and the strangeness
and the perfect fit that I thought we were
and the speed with which you walk
and your voice when you talk
and how every time I think of you I think in
       lines and stanzas and poems.
And it doesn’t make sense because I was never a poet before.