The last memory

Ft. Adso Piñerúa Have I always been this way? There’s an emptiness in the way my hands travel across my skin, as if I were searching for myself in a foreign geography, as if my own existence were slipping through my fingers. Something is missing. Something that perhaps was never there, but aches as if it had once been mine. Sadness doesn’t cry here — it floats, clinging to the skin with the delicacy of a memory that refuses to be touched. I think of a face, a voice, a love my mind can’t fully trace. There is an absence carved into my flesh, a forgotten heartbreak lost in the folds of memory. I don’t know who I miss, I only know the emptiness fits perfectly into the shape of something I cannot name.