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9/10/20

417

it has been 417 days. no more, no less.
i shut my front door with my heel and read the date and time.
i remembered what i did before, and repeated it,
i took the tape from the drawer on the table,
scribbled on the back of a spare envelope with a black marker
and stuck it to the wall.

it has been 417 days. no less.
i am gradually forgetting the events of that day,
every morning and night, glancing over the paper
i recall less and less,
one head disappears from a photo,
one voice disappears from a crowd,
and in their place there is no alien,
there is no shapeshifter taking them,
no conspiracy, no killing,
no nebulous grey cloud.
they are simply not there.

it has been 417 days. no more.
i reflect on their features, i try and commit to memory
the details of their face, or the warmth of their hands,
scribbling down anything i can grasp,
designing a person. tomorrow is their last day.
i sit on my living room floor and stare far
into the vague concept of a person i knew.