We set fire to the dead wood so we can replant good growth.

I hate that I will always remember his face. His face, no matter how old he gets. Friends will vanish. The details of a stranger who helped me on a roadside, will fade over time. I find the worst violation is that time has left him in me, like a plastic bag between me and being with someone. Always invisible and moving. Reaction without engagement. Like he is still touching me. I can’t breathe. He is so heavy.

Now I cannot take back where I did not notice. I left him there, hidden where he wanted to be. “I love you,” he said, as he forced himself inside of me and begged me to forgive him afterwards, throwing himself in front of my car like a tantrum. “Come back.” He looked like a dejected three-year-old looks sad over something it has accidentally killed and wants to play with again. “Please. I’m sorry. Come hold me. It’s not fair.” 
 I still cannot breathe. He is so heavy, pushing me down so I cannot remember. I am still down there. There is no compass in the dizzy dark. Everything has gotten so far away. I watch the memory of myself before through a thick wet dirty window. I cannot feel her now. And I want so desperately to touch again, slowly and deeply and naked.

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