You once told me that you went as far away as possible.
That if you punched a hole in a map, your fist would come out on the other side, straight through that dying coral reef.
And if you believe in signs as you told me that you did, then finding me pouring over books should have set you ablaze too. Should have left you feeling like a bloodhound who just picked up the trail again.
But that might have been a lie
And at this point I wouldn’t doubt it
At this point I need to snap on gloves, the yellow rubber, floppy ones that extend to your elbows. I need to put them on and ignore the uncomfortable feeling as my hands begin to sweat within in them because there is no air to let them breathe.
I need to put them on and open my brain and pick through my memories and find the ones tainted with the black sludge that I have so easily allowed to take over pieces of myself
Only until I have found it all, pulled all of it from small little corners, taken the scent of you out of my nose, removed the precise length of your eyelashes from my mind’s eye and erased all the small comments from daily thought will I be satisfied.
It’s a messy process.
It’s almost a sludge.
The yellow streaked with black goop.