Where there were words there is only a void. This is why I don’t write to you. This is my silence and my sadness.
I’ve memorised the few places you’ve touched. My cheek, your fingertips brushing tears away. Unkindly, I wonder if they bothered you, if you wanted to erase them, inconvenient proof that you matter, make consequences. My left shoulder, your fingers making circles there, the fraction of a second when you rested your head on mine. The small of my back. My hands. A hand wrapped around an arm, fingertips accidents. Your mouth on my cheek. The last time I saw you, I, for hours afterward remembered; brown heavy boots, blue jeans, dark blue shirt, white buttons. What you wore became a list recited over and over (such a short list, forgetting impossible, but the panic, the fear that I would and you would dissolve, I would dissolve), like keeping the details would somehow keep me safe, keep you safe, keep us safe. The irrational thought that remembering could bring you to me. Memory as talisman. I don’t know that I can keep anything safe. The fountains we throw our wishes into. The ways we know that we have lost. The words we choke on. The hope that burns our houses. How we welcome the flames.
A photograph I recently posted has amassed over 2,000 notes, most of which are reblogs. When I click through, I’m not surprised to see how many people have chosen to strip the credit from the original post. This is the photographer whose work you’ve liked enough to share - Kim Winderman.
Tumblr is tiresome.
Imaginary Encounters, Thomas Tozzi.