I Remember

I'm sure it was intermingled with a dream, the sensation of a touch. I have an active imagination and I'm sure
I remember more than what actually happened. I remember knots in the string I was pulling on and frayed ends of a rope. The sand under my toes was full of shells that seemed to disappear when I searched for them and footprints in the sand came from seals marooned on the shore. I breathed in sea salt that poisoned my reality and I remember the boy who never glanced at me. My joints throbbed with the burden of waves hitting limp limbs and I collapsed, becoming a meal for the always starving jaws of the waves.


The tears run down my face but I don't remember the dream.


I told everyone that night but I don't remember the kiss.


Of course the phone rang again and again. I didn't want to answer it. My second grade self cowered at the phone that lit up every five minutes. Orange light, orange light. I turned the ringer off but it just kept ringing and I couldn't do anything but watch the caller ID on the screen. I don't even remember if it ever stopped.


I remember staring at letters on the billboard and wrinkling my forehead to make out the scribbles that seemed to form letters. The incompetency I felt. The permanent wrinkles remind me, the scar on my eyelid reminds me. I look at my face and I remember.


I remember your fingers interlaced with mine as we innocently swung them down the street. Whenever I crush a soda can I remember the embellishment on your heel that you wore down the road. You asked me if I took choir and I remember you considering it. Maybe it was because of me. I remember the yearbook and potential marriage offers made in childish games. I remember the fear and I remember the absolute resolution in which you spoke. I can't remember what I was afraid of, and I don't remember your face.


I stared at you through the screen and pushed you away faster than you had crept up on me.