The casual acts of your forgetting are so quiet that it seems
almost silly to point to them as the epicenter of calamity.
To think that what happens one summer could ever possibly
have a lasting effect is the bright mark of your youthful naivety, the
lightheartedness in which you enter into depths beyond what you can know. Everything
seems so transient during the height of youth that you never realize your
relativity doesn’t dictate the realities of the concrete world.
Someone snaps a photo of you two: your tectonic plates are
touching. Your fingertips set off tremors; your smiles unaware, as if you think
you can continue your tea party in an earthquake.
My wrath seeks the wrong target, but I do not care about
collateral damage – wrath is process, it is nature, it cannot be implored
otherwise. No past hardships can protect you, no pleasantries can persuade; not
even an equally mighty and righteous force of nature can stand in the path and
say “it was my fault.”
To simplify a person, a life full of intricacies,
experiences, hidden revelations, dreams bright and beautiful – to take a world
and crush it down into one moment and dismiss every other detail is a power so
mighty and righteous in its destructive force and yet… so soothing.
Your erasure is the most violent act I can commit without laying a hand on you. A silence where you once existed, a final settling of dust.
I withdraw all potential. I erase your existence. I will
not make eye contact, your name is a dead language.
Victorious.
