He forgets her name
Forgets the date
Forgets what was happening that weekend
Forgets why I kept on asking,
Why I wouldn’t let it go.
He calls her honey colored hair blond,
Doesn’t know her age,
Doesn’t know her town,
Doesn’t care of her past.
I bet he never knew the color of her eyes
That’s the thing with dark bars and heavy alcohol,
He remembers that.
He never learned how to spell her name
The one he moaned into her ear for nights on end.
I, on the other hand,
Have done extensive research on the spelling of it.
I carry every possible rendition of her name with me at all times
Like a chain belt around my neck
Tearing off my skin with every breath.
If you woke me up in the middle of the night
I could recite the order in which I search for her in all the directories
If it is J or Y, E or I, that I try out first.
He forgets the moment
Forgets the pleasure and the pain
Forgets my sleepless nights he never even knew about.
He forgets to apologize
Forgets not to lie
Forgets not to do it again.
For him she is passable,
A dark drunken night that is forgettable.
For me, she never leaves,
The picture he took of her stands in the locket around my neck,
I can feel her beating against my heart.
For me, she is always here,
Standing between me and any man that reaches out,
I am always afraid he will call me by her name.
For me, I carry her around wherever I go,
Somewhere so deep inside my chest I cannot claw her out,
Always knowing her name,
Always remembering her face.
It has been almost a year
And I still get sick from the scent of the Jasmine flower.