One afternoon, she sits beside me.
Sighing softly, I say nostalgically:
"Do you remember that day we sat together in a park
and you gave me an orange leaf you found beside your feet?"

She doesn't.

After that, we sit silently.
Looking ahead, she explains offhandedly:
"It happened so long ago, I can't remember that at all, love.
After all this time, do you still have the leaf?"

I do.

There are so many things in my memory.
So many little moments of my days,
fragments of my life that for the life of me,
unfortunately,
I cannot throw away into my mind's abyss.

There are so many things inside of me.
So many memories of other people's actions,
things that they have so casually,
dismissively,
been able to leave behind and not carry.

Months later, we stand in silence.
Between sobs, I say hopefully:
"Do you remember that night we lay together in my bed
and you held me and told me you'd always love me?"

She does.

For a while, we stand there awkwardly.
Looking down, she says uncomfortably:
"It's been going for too long, this isn't gonna work at all, love.
We need to leave it all behind, do you understand me?"

I don't.

There are so many things I can still see.
So many painful memories of us together,
moments that I so carefully,
pathetically,
kept protected inside my heart so gently.

There are just too many things weighing down on me.
So many torturous tokens I want to throw away,
things that she has so easily,
almost cruelly,
left me alone with for eternity.

To the ones who can forget so effortlessly,
From the one who can't help but remember:
How do I walk through that park's street
and nonchalantly
let the wind carry away that orange leaf?


Originally published in Revista Kyrial (Letras/PUCCAMP) in 2017.