I used to be your anchor. The reason there was so much beauty here was because we knew what it was like to dance with death. 
We knew how to build a home, but it was no mansion. It barely had windows. There was a balcony, I would sip my coffee there every morning, and wait for you to come home. Morning jogs were your thing, never mine. 
Remember when we laughed so hard when the bus took you away, and it poured all over my head? 
Remember when we sold the refrigerator and you pushed it into the hallway, pretending to be so strong? 
But this act of remembering I can’t trust. Just like I don’t trust that you ever existed. Memory is strange and sometimes  memories don’t tell the truth. 

Do you remember when you said “don’t you dare forget”? 
But without my anchor I forget.
I forget to take the garbage out, I forget that the toothbrush needs replacement, and those are just the small things. 

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