Given a dizzying moment of cessation, I set about the cumbersome work of forgetting. E’s quiet legs; the desert expanse of his shoulders and the soft taper of his back; the domesticating animal of the body he’s claimed. The few strained and truncated conversations with C; the weighty tears after talking to K. My fullest self, scattered like ashes or expelled like waste somewhere between here and New England (Detroit?). Now that so much has been so painstakingly forgotten–or will be soon–what’s left to be so urgently felt? It’s no news: we begin and end at Point A, with no room for trajectory, and no excuse for it.

Tomorrow, I will tattoo a word and a date onto my bare forearm, and spend the coming weeks loving the ink, and mourning the needle’s loss.

Popularity: 2% [?]