I Want To Hold The Hand Inside You

Sometimes I feel as though there is a round hole in my chest where I can feel the world turning and turning. Time is complicated; clocks still confuse me. There are four years in my life that I can only tell apart by the different colours of my best friend’s hair. Others might have used coffee spoons, but I was never big on the taste.

I want to put it all down. There is an intense need to document every second — to hoard and save — but the years keep passing, and the season keep changing… and things just kind of slip away — like the ring of the fourth period bell, or that old, ratty t-shirt.

The truth is, sometimes I remember songs better than the people I’ve loved, and maybe that’s for the best. The human memory is pieced and pulpy, like a phone number run through the wash. I wanted to keep it, and I know there’s a three and a five, but it gets thrown out anyway.

I don’t always miss it.
I don’t always care.

In my sleep, I can remember the pockets on in the inside of my grandmother’s purse. The smell of her perfume. The glassy green of her eyes. Some things make their way inside of you and stay. Some things replace vertebrae — like you. And if time empties me of everything, you would not lose me, because you wind and knot and stay.

I will never miss you
because I will never forget you.

I will always care.

I wind and knot and stay.

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