I remember. He doesn’t.

I remember him telling me he had a horrible memory.   I remember telling him I remember everything.

I remember every time we made love.  He doesn’t.

I remember every time we hung out.  He doesn’t.

I remember every time he said “I love you.”   He doesn’t.

I remember every time he was with someone else and was suppose to me with me.  He doesn’t.

I remember every time he forgot we had plans and did something with someone else.  He doesn’t.

I remember every weekend I didn’t hear from him, not even a good morning.  He doesn’t.

I remember every conversation we have had.  He doesn’t.

I remember every time he asked me if I was mad, and I said “no, I’m hurt.”  He doesn’t.

I remember telling him that Monday nights are special because it is the guarantee that I will have time, sitting close to him and touching him.   He doesn’t.

I remember crying myself to sleep due to the need for him.  He doesn’t.

I remember trying to fuck other men but couldn’t because he is all I want.  He doesn’t.

I remember him saying he would spend time at my place.  He doesn’t.

I remember buying duplicate things to have at my house.  He doesn’t.

I remember trying to rationalize and justify the silence and absence.  He doesn’t.

I remember telling him how I feel and he saying it would change.  He doesn’t.

I remember him saying he would call me in the mornings so we could catch up more often.  He doesn’t.

I remember I know he is busy and I am not a priority and that I am all alone and wishing I was with him.  He doesn’t.

I remember wishing I was more of a priority.  He doesn’t.

If he remembers, it doesn’t feel like he does.

I hate his memory.   It is the only thing about him I hate.

I hate my memory.  It is the only thing I can’t escape.

 

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