White Noise

I met you on the longest day, believing the time we had together was interminably elastic. Now the edges of hours shorten and shrink, curling inward like discarded sweet wrappers. As the minutes fast forward into night I forget you. I recall the planets; Jupiter, Saturn, Mars. The names of constellations you taught me drip off my tongue; Andromeda, Orion, Cassiopeia. I know there are 27 bones in the hand that brushed the hair from my face. I can recite the alphabet backwards, searching for clues. But I can’t remember your name. Seconds boil down to nothing as the kettle whistles. I stir milk into my tea and memories splash around my head. Who spoke first? Who initiated the first kiss? Grasping for answers, there is only a blank space where your smile should be, white noise when I try to remember your last three words.
Christina Taylor
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