If you knew me then, would you remember me now.

Suspicion spreads through my mind like a rodent dodging into corners. I sweep myself through this very day, trying manically to avoid clearing my memory of our moment entirely. You cannot see, but I wish you would know, I am trying to keep you. And although I am moving rapidly, believing a constant spree of motion will produce a change within me, I am holding us still. 

Morning breaks through my blinds and I am without you, but no more alone. Who is to know now, whether in darkness I will see you then, and try to know you better there. Our relation (no, not a relationship as you assume in dream) falls under the thematic veil of my undertakings, which helps me use the distraction of our distance as a reason to resolve what would otherwise be a rising indifference. Yesterday, you were in front of me, but I did not see you there. It was more like a figure wafting through time with no permanence at all. Someone reduced to something, which I would rather not remember you as being. These are the times I filter out acts of living through the hole in my eyes, so I am only left with substance soaking in the sponge of my mind. We are all made to believe, but instead we just make. Changed after each minute and changing at the start of the next, these alterations make it impossible to be made and kept as one. “Have you ever been had?” I cannot forget it. And yesterday, with your hand dropping down into existence over my own, I could see how you were looking to achieve permanence. As if the subtle stretch of your fingers across my paling skin was silence speaking in and of itself, “I cannot forget it either.” Then, just as I felt I was seeing you, as my memory knows you, you became absent. But your touch is how I keep you, and you know that is how you see me too.