FORGETFUL ME
by Ross Hardy 

FORGETFUL ME

I remember on our first date.
We both had a list
of questions that we wanted
to know about each other.
Years from now,
I won’t remember your favorite color
but I’ll remember the way
it felt when our teeth
crashed into each other when we
kissed that first time.
Like it would be the last
time either of us
would ever kiss someone.
I won’t remember where
you wanted to vacation next.
But I’ll remember
every color pigment in your eyes
and how they had the perfect
balance of melanin in them.
Your favorite TV show
won’t even register.
But the way you’d laugh
will be the laughter track
to every comedy I watch.
The story about you riding a bike?
It’s a blur.
But I remember every outline
to every tattoo on your
flawless fucking body.
There’s a good chance
I won’t remember the day in May
that you hated every year
because it reminded you
of a dark past.
But the way our bodies
were like a tessellation
when we spooned at night
will never escape my mind.
Where you went to high school?
Not a clue.
But I’ll remember every note in
the bouquet of your breath
when you first woke up
and I’d bury my tongue
in your mouth before
you brushed your teeth.
You hated that.
I won’t recall the name
of your childhood best friend.
But I’ll never forget the
mellifluous tone of your voice
when you said the words
“I love you”
And I swear to every God
I don’t believe in
that I’ll look for it
in every whispering wind that blows.
Because even the memories
just don’t do it justice.

TICK OF TIME

The sun shining through the window
is burning my right leg
as I sit there staring into space.
Dust molecules float in the air,
suspended indefinitely, moving
purposefully to nowhere in particular.
The condensation drops cascade
down the side of a glass,
meandering as they do so
as if trying to avoid something
that I can’t see from where I’m sitting.
The clock in the kitchen
ticks, and tocks,
and ticks, and tocks.
Outside I see the clouds moving.
For a second I contemplate if
the earth is moving
or the clouds are.
As if it even matters.
Birds sing their verses
as the neighbors car pulls off the drive.
And everything is just so
unremarkably remarkable.
Because today is my last day.
My cocktail of vodka and pills
feel like they are burning my body
and it feels like I’m floating in air,
suspended indefinitely, purposefully.
And as I slip away
my body gives one last jolt
as if trying to avoid something
I can’t see from where I’m sitting.
The birds aren’t singing any more
and the clouds slow down,
and I think about how remarkably
unremarkable my life has been.
The clock stops ticking
and tocking
and time
is up

SOME NIGHTS

Some nights I go to bed
and think about you all night long,
unable to sleep,
crushed by the unending pain
that I feel.
Other nights, I sit up
writing about you into the early hours
until I’m so tired and
emotionally drained
that I fall fast asleep
and I don’t think of you at all.
I still don’t know which is worse.

About the Author:

Ross Hardy moved to the US at the age of 25. His writing is intended for self-healing (I think) from relationships past and is less "thought out" and more "spilling words to survive". Divorcee, father, seeker of the soul. Ok kinda guy. Horrible picture taker. Always seeking perfection.