distance

Memory is a distant cousin. Memory is a neglected friend. Memory is someone we haven't seen in ages, turning up unannounced looking older, kinder, wearing stranger clothes than the last time you met. Why the funny hat, Memory? Can't you see that we aren't here to impress? But I do like your dress. I like the way it drapes over your thighs, reminding me that we were once warriors when we walked. Should we take a walk now? I feel there's so much we need to say, even if we refuse to use words.

But Memory won't walk with you. It has other plans, appointments to keep, people to continue to see. You were just on the way to their next place. You were a quick hello, a box to check off. Hello. Check. "Checking in with you to make sure you still get hung up on me from time to time."

And you do. You, fortunately, forget most of the time. But then there are the late nights after your regrettable solo dinners in front of a screen that acts as an anesthesia when you close off and come in close to create no space between you and the past. You wade around and then dive into what would have been better off drained. There is no way to remain afloat in the remote spaces of your mind. You sink, but your drowning is dressed up in silk. Everything is smooth, everything is safe, everything is in the shadow of the future made present.

Oxygen isn't even a consideration. Oxygen is just as distant as Memory. Who needs breath when you have a rose lens?