The Forgotten

We call each other by name.
By song, by touch.
By any peculiarity we disguise ourselves with.
Yet in this crafted hour
I call you by that which you don't recognize.
And so when you hear my voice
You will hear it a stranger does, detached,
Ephemeral as a distant echo that glides unto valleys
And at once is gone.

There will be days when even my face,
Familiar as a well-loved toy,
Will cease to exist.
And in its place, only a vague countenance
Of colors and brush strokes,
Only bits and pieces of letters
That must have once resembled notes
Written haphazardly
On walls, tabletops.
It will be like waking up from a dream
and realizing that even the waking up
Was unreal.

I glide in front of you
Like a feather.