Autumn
Look at me, recalling the romance out of everything. Your eyes, your hair; your last name and career inclinations. I will always be less I don’t remember his name, but I remember that day; and more Yesterday, I found him on LinkedIn—he’s married now, and works in IT. Don’t get me wrong — most of me is grateful my need to know is almost always satiated. But a tiny part that yearns for mystery will always remain. For surely nothing quite so human as unanswered questions and lack of closure, come to life in unreliable narration and confusing dreams. Though perhaps, this is a natural defence mechanism—my body and mind come to consensus that the only way I will move forward is if I can get a clear look backward, and so doing their best to keep me advancing always. After all, if I remembered only the colliding cold of autumn on my arms and warmth of your palm against my back, I would be lost forever to the past.
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