I forget him sometimes. What remains? If nothing remains, there is nothing to forget.
Like how I forget to use articles in the English language. Words and sentences and thoughts drop from my mouth. It makes no difference to me. The chair you use to sit on in the kitchen. What if it is just a chair? Or the chair his grandfather left him. Yet this wood is not him. The lack of word tells you that language can't substitute for life, but it can substitute for something. What? He said: "I don't quite belong here," while we laid bare. But his hands still found my breasts. Yet another way to define why he clothed, to explain why I endure, to outline why I still gaze. Sail away with one thought or one human being. A human being is milk and honey on another side, where connection is just a word. A human being is me, a me, the me in relation to you. A lifetime spent trying to touch you, to leave a mark. Which is nothing.
Anchor me.