I saw his face while walking through the mall yesterday. Every muscle and tendon in my body tightened and released, after comprehending that it was a stranger browsing through calendars. Breathing was prolonged like vacations and anniversaries written into tiny squares.

 

Three days ago I was sitting in class listening to people write about how to straighten their hair or how to dribble a soccer ball as I wrote about how to cope with trauma. Walking out of the classroom that day was like Buddha Shakyamuni walking out of Kapilavastu for the first time, sports and games were replaced by aging and suffering.

 

Last week my boyfriend kissed my cheek and whispered something in my ear and closing my eyes I was taken back to that couch with his hot breath creeping down my neck. He'd soon be apart of the past like the humid heat in Florida when I was a child.

 

On Thanksgiving I locked myself in the bathroom because I couldn't stand being around everyone with light green eyes. Staring at my own dark brown in the mirror, I imagined his darker than the moon eclipsing over the sun.

 

Last month my friend asked why I always look behind me while I walk and I responded with "oh you know, weird habit of mine." They say old habits die hard but it was me who was decaying.

 

Six months ago I was staring at an old painting of Abe Lincoln, I mimicked his direct powerful expression as a courtroom took what was left of me. It wasn't much but it was my last ring on a ladder, it was my last candle as night set in.

 

Two years ago I was laying with my bestfriend and I could smell pine on his sweater as I told him about my old home surrounded by peach trees. How I now preferred sharp needles instead of juicy succulence.

 

Three years ago I was laying on the couch with my father.

A war movie was on and I saw as the soldiers closed their eyes with their bellies against the muddy ground.

I remember looking out the window and seeing a flock of geese.

A narrow V against the grey sky.

 

Today I awoke in my bed.

My ceiling with the imprints of old leaves is the first and last thing I see in a day.

They scream at me as I walk outside.

 

As I stepped out my door I could see the reds and oranges of the sun breaking against the horizon.

 

I could hear the geese.