Days go by, I count the days; you keep slipping from these fingers, these forgetful fingers. These days I always lose hold of you as if you were heavy like a rock, as if you were slippery like wet soap. The rain tends to remind me of your sweat on my skin, tiny raindrops dotting the map of my exterior, clothing me but not into warmth but to coldness, into an unpleasant and freezing coldness.

Let me get this straight: at the tip of my tongue, there is a word (or maybe a name, maybe your name), and I couldn’t spit it out, not that I’d want to, yet I ought to, need to. Again, let me tell you this, slowly, careful of its delicateness — there is a voice that’s resided inside my ears, and it wants to call it its home (is it? will it be?).

I was never good with numbers, but I have mastered the mathematics of our distance, and how inversely proportional your absence and the days I longed for your presence are. Maybe someday, you’ll keep falling away until you fall back to me. But someday isn’t today, and I’m left with nothing but a memory or two that shies away quickly when I try to catch them inside my head.