Tell me about your terrible memory, then I’ll tell you about mine. You’ll explain the inability to remember details, but how you can seem to recollect what you must —that it’s sad but an inconvenience you can live with.
Then, I will describe the opposite, the other side. I am only privileged to remember what I should not — the indent of your dimples, the trance within your glance, the fumble of your fingers, hoping for a chance to dance. I remember the sunlight casting shadows on your face through the afternoon when I warmed in your embrace.
I remember thoughts that are not mine, which you’ve abandoned over time, hopes you once possessed but cannot now attest, and a love you gave to me that must have been hyperbole. After all these years and all these details you’ve lost, I eventually lost you.
Your memory is terrible because you cannot recall, mine because I cannot forget.
Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #192 // Grazia Curcuru