Forgotten feelings bubble up. Skins that have been shed as we search for the person underneath the rocky exterior. A person that only exists in fleeting memory. A person you’re content to forget because remembering means there’s more than this. More than silence and a dull ache in the pit of your stomach. More than regrets unspoken and regret over regrets unspoken. So you forget. Satisfied with gripping peace when it appears, grimacing as flesh tears when it inevitably slips through your fingers. Taking solace in what appears to be love, a charred moth that wanted to feel warmth. You forget because you are a hundred lives removed from who you think you were. On the precipice of a canyon filled with coffins. Muted deaths in strange lands. You write another eulogy, dedicated to someone you may not recognise tomorrow.
