melancholy

The Thing You Never Want to Forget

Artwork by Quirubin Boqueo

The day the moon said enough and took back her waters,
the leftover salt caked my heartlines in protest.
I could still smell pine on That Side Of The Bed
even after all the washes with chemical laced detergent.
They asked how you were. I held you on my tongue, dancing barefoot in the kitchen and serenading me with plum licked teeth.
There was That Part after, when the slop turned sharp and the agave residue in your blood split cups into shards and I shut you up with the drone of the vacuum.
I tell them the truth. We laugh because the moon denied that other thing.
Afterwards, I feel empty.
Maybe it’s all the in-betweens I miss.
The driving to the grocery store. The way you folded sheets. The brand of coffee on the bench.
I make an appointment to get them etched on the underneath of my bones so that even when flesh composts you will never leave. Bones were the forever before plastic.
Maybe it’s the moments under moments I never want to forget.

—

Pritha Marks is a nearly qualified teacher and writer in Auckland, New Zealand. She likes to soak up her time with discussions about the universe, dancing and letting her soul spill out with words.

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