On Forgetting You

I thought about forgetting you,
about closing in and locking up
the windows and doors of my memory.
Considered packing you up
in fragile boxes of corrugated cardboard
sealed with clear cellophane tape,
pushing you and piling you up
into one dusty mind-corner,
to never again be touched
by the sunlight of thought.

But I know that truth will always touch you,
and I know that, even as the boxes pile high,
there will always be one bit that has escaped
the boxes and the tape,
evading me, until I see your sunglasses
or my favorite tan hat,
and remember the way you kissed my cheek once,
or held my hand when you thought I was scared,
even though I wasn’t.

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