The art of forgetting.

They told me I would start noticing again.


Slowly but surely, the colors would fade from the image of him in my mind and return to the world around me, each hue fading from his cheeks and eyes and his favorite maroon shirt. And one day, I’d wake up and the colors would be all around me again–the blues of his faded jeans returned to the sky, the brown of his eyes reappearing in the trees and dirt.


Some days it’s his handwriting or his smile, crystal clear in my mind. Other days it slips from my memory to be replaced by his hands, strong and steady, the gentle squeeze of his around mine.


Some days my heart aches with the missing of it, not wanting any touch but his. And the trouble is, the only cure for wanting what you no longer have is to have it again.


But that is not an option this time. So I press on.


Maybe someday, they said, patting me on the shoulder or squeezing my hand. It could still happen someday. And I desperately wanted to believe them. If they think so, it must be true, right?

But the more time that passes, the redder the bricks become as the colors fade from my memory. And maybe this healing, this forgetting, is an art all its own. Maybe it is a good practice, to learn how to heal. It is a good thing to lose the little details about him, a good thing to pack my bags and say goodbye to my dream. And maybe the fact that my skin is forgetting the feeling of his touch isn’t betrayal, but a part of me knowing that I must be kind to my heart. A part of me knows that I can’t leave it on the street corner. I can fight the forgetting as much as I want, but the only person I’m hurting is me.


And whether I like it or not, I will still forget.


So I open my eyes and look out the window, watching the gray sky fill with the softest and most hopeful of blues.


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