every few months,
i am transported. it’s excruciating,
sapping every last breath. memories flood my mind,
the texture of her skin,
the timbre of her voice. every few months,
i call her number. a desperate attempt
at reconciling fact with feeling.
waiting for the operator’s tone,
void of inflection, to tell me. so i can feel familiar rage
in the tight clamp of my jaw. every few months,
i forget what i should know.