insignia

You called me to let me know that you switched to your fall cologne. The bottle that we bought together once upon a time.

And now I can almost smell it.

The simple memory of your smell is wafting through my apartment and clinging to my clothes like the ghosts of you that I have spent countless hours trying to contain.

Yes, contain. Not demolish.

Because the complete demolition of your ghosts would feel like I had erased you from my entire existence. And that would not be honest.

A wise man once said that we have to name our demons, and face them. That way they are no longer a nameless black being lurking in our closets and wreaking havoc on our lives.

You are my demon. I named you. I faced you. I spent months collecting your ghosts and putting them neatly into boxes. Not to forget. But to contain.

And now your fucking smell is sharp in my memory and fresh on my nose and the boxes are bursting open and I am possessed by you once more.

And my heart is breaking.

We fell in love in the fall. I wore a scarf. You wore a bowtie. So many memories of new love and life and joy and dreams. All unleashed after one goddamn phone call.

Is it possible to move on and move backwards at the same time? It’s as if I have one hand in the future and one hand in the past, and my middle is all mixed up in the present which is simply a cumulation of memories, heartbreak, lost dreams, and new hopes.

Is the present really the present? Or is it just the space in between what once was and what will be?

Will your ghosts forever follow me?

You are like a dark mark—an insignia of broken promises.

October, 2018