i met my friend’s grandfather once, but he introduced himself to me twelve times.
he shakes my hand and says, “nice to meet you ….”
he stops; as he uneasily smiles.
it took me a while to read between the lines, to notice the signs,
that he doesn’t simply forget names sometimes, but always.
he used to be an avid poet; brought up in a town near mine
and with every verse he’d pursue, he’d recollect the memories and memoirs of the girls and the wars, the swarmed souks and stores
explaining to me hidden stories behind his similes and metaphors
and in that sudden moment, he managed to forget the name of his sickness
and in that sudden moment, it hit me the significance of writing
that i, will never feel the same thing twice
that i might have the capacity to clarify how I feel right now, but in a night’s rest, my memories turn into missing cereal boxes
from unwritten grocery lists, the smell of smoke from a forgotten birthday wish, the sweat from your hands around my wrists
things I thought I’d remember but didn’t.
just for tonight, to feel the same thing twice
i write that I’m beginning to forget you
i scrunch the paper and turn off the lights
