Remember me?

“Remember me!” It’s your last wish as you pack your bags.
As you place the muffler your mother knitted for you along with the green tie your sister bought you.
As you safekeep your travel documents and your passport in the leather purse.
Remember me…the words echo as I see you move towards immigration, and the last of you disappears.
As I drive the car back home and park it in the space of our building.
As I drink tea alone after five years of always having shared it with you.
Remember me… the memory floats as I water the plants that you so lovingly grew.
As I make a meal for one, instead of two.
As I start settling into a rhythm where I have no one to answer and no one to question.
Remember me…I surprisingly recall as I leave a dinner I had with friends after ages of dodging them.
As I pass my number to an old college friend I see years later.
As my heart races when he smiles at me while calling the waiter.
Remember me…it’s the drag of my conscience as I slip into the dress I had only brought for your eyes.
As I hold some one else’s hand and whisper sultry lies.
As I unbutton someone else’s shirt and unravel someone else’s tie.
Remember me…is just another phrase as I share my nights with someone new.
As a new number starts receiving my I love yous.
As I very conveniently forget you.
Remember me…it’s the startling reminder as I see you after a

thousand days.
As I clear the remainders of my past mistake.
As I slip my hand into yours again.


Her Voice.

Her voice will be like a whisper.

You’ll trash the house and break the vase that you both purchased from the flea market because you were decorating the house on the budget and the vase reminded her of the swirly designs she used to see on the wall of her favourite art gallery.

You’ll shout and tear at the curtains that she selected, because she knew you liked the colour of the sky right before the sun rose, and even if it wasn’t the same, it was the next closest thing to it.

You’ll tell her you aren’t right for her, 3 years of holding hands, sharing kisses slowly, breaking the buttons of your favourite shirt because the physical distance was too much, hot breath on her ears and fingertips on her sensitive skin, smiling at each other, madly and foolishly in love and you’ll tell her you aren’t right for her.

You’ll tell her that perhaps this was never meant to be and that each relationship had an expiry date and this was yours and the good thing was to let go of each other because going any further was unhealthy.

Her voice will be like a whisper then, ‘don’t go, I don’t care.’

and you know she knows, and you abandon pretense and go away anyway, because the physical weight of the guilt is too much.

You don’t deserve her, you’ll tell yourself that she was clingy, and stupid and blind and too naive, but the truth is you don’t deserve her, because you’re an asshole and when she was standing by her mother’s deathbed, you were kissing someone else, and she knew and she still asked you to stay, but you can’t because you’re too much of a fucking asshole and you know it.