I became hungry for memory: a deranged archaeologist losing my foothold on scree. Hours spent looking for a long discarded letter; an afternoon to piece together shards of conversation. Was it that time you asked? Did you know what I meant when I said? I have the overwhelming need to parse you, so I can know.
I drift into sleep deliberately recalling your cheekbone, a blade in the air as you turn to me; the flat planes of your fingernails. When you wound my hair into a knot around your fist and pulled me to you.
I want you assembled and classified; labelled and catalogued. I want you neat. But these are the aspirations of the full moon and the locked ward.
I manage an untidy drawer, a cupboard door that won’t quite shut, gaps on the shelves. Who could cross-reference this?
And so I have let go. I have stopped digging, the digging easier than the stopping. I have quieted myself.
Still, even so, memory opens like a cut.