The Girl Who Forgot and the Boy Who Stood in Line

And so the girl spoke, “What happened that day, the day you said was your last vivid memory of me?”

He replied, “You spotted me in a long line and I stepped out of my place so we can sit and chat. And then you went ahead. Just like that. Unlike you, I remember that day but I don’t remember what we talked about. Maybe because I was overwhelmed with finally seeing you again. That after years and years, I was there, standing in front of you, at close range, sharing a brief moment of recollection, even if I had to give up a spot I held on for hours.”

Shirts, Not Skeletons

Breaking up with shirts when I clean out my closets is always agonizing. Through the clearing, I always end up disposing only a couple out of the hundreds, with two wooden cabinets left bulged and vomiting textile. The bane of being a sentimental T-shirt-hoarding boy, I guess.

A Hand

At this exact time I find myself
lacking in motion and opportunity

—an expectant father to a barren womb—
waiting for calmness to fall like a cloud—
a feather descending to still water—

it helps to have a hand to hold: yours
amid the reign of distrust, the rain of memory.

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