When They Ask

Yes

I remember it.

Well, I am reminded of it.

I am reminded by the tension I hold in my jaw. I am reminded by an echo, a voice that sounds like you ringing out some approximation of what you said.

I am reminded when the light hits the edge of your temple.

I think I remember the pattern of a carpet.

I question if I remember anything at all sometimes

or if I remember you telling me a story of what was.

I guess I remember it.

A shell of it

that I out grew and

crawled out of.

I live in new memories now.

It’s hollow without me,

the moments I left behind. I’m left

without you

So I must remember it.

Leaves fell and cleared the branches

space for new buds in spring

but for now

bare as I bear the round about between

remembering and reminded.