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
again.
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.