The Vanishing Act

I woke up in a room that knew my name.

But the walls just stared like strangers,

There are pictures on my phone of a life I lived.

Every laugh is just a sound I used to know,

But I can’t place where it belongs.

And I’m trying to sing along to a song I wrote,

But the words all come out wrong.

I swear there used to be someone here,

A memory shaped like a friend.

But the outlines smear like wet ink

Every time I try to hold them again.

I keep thinking,

“I used to know someone who meant a lot to me,”

and I hate that I can’t finish the thought.

I’m losing pieces of myself one at a time,

I try saying your name out loud

and it catches in my throat,

like a word I learned once.

If tomorrow I look at you

and my face doesn’t light up the way it should,

please know I didn’t choose that.

It’s just getting harder to stay whole

when everything keeps slipping.

If I fade slowly,

please stay loud.

Tell the stories I can’t keep.

Say my name even when I don’t answer.

And if one day I walk past you

like we never shared a life,

just know I’m still trying

to hold onto whatever’s left.

I’m losing pieces of myself one at a time,

and I’m scared of who I’ll be

when the last one falls.

But if I forget you tomorrow,

I hope you remember me enough

for both of us.