it was like…. every time I coughed
he was escaping me somehow.
Every time I opened a door,
every time I brushed my hair
every time I exhaled…
he was leaving all over again.
I would find myself crying at the end of the night when I knew I had forgotten how he smelled or the way he said hello when he was tired or sad or angry or exuberant.
i was losing parts of him, slowly
always at the same time.
I remember that his birthday is in December
and the first thing he ever painted was a flower
for his mom on mother’s day.
I could probably tell you his favorite foods
and the first thought he has every morning,
but soon I will no longer remember.
even that will be gone.”—Amanda Helm, Forgetting You Every Minute (via amandaspoetry)