Amnesia

Nowadays, I find comfort in my intimate collection of memories. Memories woven by the coming and going faces in my stories. Rather than tasting the real thing, I delve into my thoughts when I feel like holding and being held.

I am content with my personal escapes that nobody knows I am taking; my little and grand rendezvous with has beens and what have you. I'd rather have memories of those I had and lost than have nothing of them.

Recently, I was wanting, needing actually, of those perfectly-drafted memories of someone, but I realized I had nothing to remember. Although, I want to say I am holding on to a memory, that I am engrossed in brilliant flashbacks, I can't because I don't have any.

Not a quiet afternoon of reading while heads rest on each other's shoulders, not one night of falling asleep listening to the sound of light breathing, not a single waking morning with a hushed voice in my ear asking how I slept, nothing.

Not even my disdainful and explicit human frailty of needing affection could create a make believe memory. I have nothing of the one I want to remember, and it leaves a despicable aftertaste in tongue, I have nothing, and I couldn't do anything about it.

If I could only weave a today with you, no matter how fleeting, I would embrace every inch of it; I would inhale every flying seconds of it because the narrowest of space and slightest of time with you would mean a lifetime of memory that I could keep.

©Grace Ramos