Hair swings.

I’m forgetting. And that’s the last thing I ever wanted. Between sips of gas station coffee and the melody between the tips of my fingers and the keys—I kept finding your brown eyes, staring back into mine. Even when the paper had ran out and the typewriter ribbon didn’t have any ink left to give me, there was always you. I jotted down your name in the corners of notebook paper and the napkins that jumbled together on my nightstand, wondering how something so beautiful can build me up and destroy me with no mercy. Maybe you liked the fragments of me underneath your fingernails to keep. Now, I’m forgetting. The way my name curled up against the inside of your lower lip and the taste of your tongue. How it feels like to have you open your door for me without having to pry it open myself. Knuckles to hinges. This is not what I wanted.