Selective Memory

I remember – we improvised a song about the flies that were eating us that early morning by the shore.
The egalitarian beach – as he would like to call it.
And how we held onto the pretense of a bright vacant mind.
Elation. Completely possessed.
We walked down that pier like soldiers – prepared to die with dignity. We jumped together; feet first, heart first, reasoning last.
One drunken afternoon, he bet that he could run across the ledge without falling in. He never made it one meter – in the ocean before I could relinquish my powerless wrath. Crowned head.
I was delusional.
And his impeccable charm.
I remember we had spoken to an older woman. A much older woman. ‘I like to drink tonic before I go to bed,’ she told us. Then she left.
We sang on the subway. The Turkish man applauded after every song and gave us his cigarettes.
These were very real.
Know that you are loved.
Be well.

I remember how he played. He played with such sorrow. Such hatred for himself but he would never let it show. The melodies were masochistic. Ceaselessly painful. We were intertwined. In reality, parasitic. And at the very end his face became meshed into many faces. I cannot remember his name. His occupation. His life. His departure from my life. His death. My memories of him were no longer of him, but of sorrow.