Its not that I forget,

It's just that I keep myself busy so I won't remember. But then I pass by you in your corner and my heart skips a beat or two. Then I shuffle through my pictures and you flash across the screen and I forget to take a breath or two. And it's not the pictures on my desktop or my home screen that compel me to pause. It's the one, that one, the one I can't pass quickly by but in fear of which my heart races every time I know it's coming up. There is nothing inherently frightening in those salmon-colored pixels, no, the look is so serene that it might be sleep to an uninitiated observer. But the leap my heart takes against the back of my chest is a recoil: a race against reality, rebellion at the reminder. Proof that sinks into me over and over again, and yet, knowing it approaches, I cannot tear my eyes away. It's not that I forget, it's just that being busy make memory seem more distant, less heavy.