I don’t know how long I’ve been like this,

with the alternating sunlight-moonlight 

leaking through the crack in the blinds 

my only reminder that days are passing.

I don’t remember.

It isn’t until I sit up in the bed 

and clear my throat that I remember

I haven’t said a word in days,

maybe weeks.

I don’t remember.

I think I ate yesterday 

or maybe the day before.

Maybe it was last night 

when the sleeping pill I know I shouldn’t take 

triggered a late night binge.

I don’t remember.

I tried to check my voicemail messages 

but “your mailbox is full” reminds me 

of another insurmountable task 

I’m going to ignore


The grief comes in waves when I least expect it. 

There aren’t any triggers I can spot and hide from.

The depression shows up when it chooses.

The drinks and the drugs don’t work like they used to.

I’m sure they used to, right?

I don’t remember.

I want to remember your eyes 

and your smile

and your scent.

I want to remember not feeling empty 

waking up and going to work

and laughing without faking it.

But how do I reclaim a memory?

I don’t remember.