I’m always hiding things.
In those moments I think –
I’ll remember where I put this.
But it’s not true. I forget.
I surprise myself
with unearthing things
a three-year-old bottle of hoisin.
I knew I had some hoisin!
The lovely little bottle of patchouli
I swore to wear every day.
My gold hoop earrings
The prettiest pink lipstick—
Is it still good?
A vestige of V.
I tossed it.
Being creative became a vise
that intensified us, me and V.
We hatched a plan to break up.
He would travel cross-country
on the train. After selling his studio,
He would leave L.A. and me.
The day I took him to the station
Relief waved over me.
A month hence—
My body ached for him
the worst I ever felt
over a man.
It was the treachery of my forties.
One day my artist friend
swung by, I asked him,
“When will I feel better?”
He said, “Throw out
every single thing you have of him.”
That meant the beautiful concentric circles
he drew on some weathered paper
with fox marks all over it.
That meant the teardrop sketch
of a house, he designed for his girlfriend
who died from a brain tumor.
That meant the pictures I took of him
the book he gave me on Japanese cooking
the wooden necklace in a wooden box
the notes he wrote me.
My mind ran like an album on replay
in a deep hole I thought I’d never get out of.
Then one day, I did.
I forgot about the love I had for him.
I just forgot.