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 supposed to be 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 said 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.
