hi lyon,
i’m a little braver today. guess what i did?
of course, i painted my nails.
two months in a row.
twice in a row.
two more than i did in the past ten years.
the only two since you said i shouldn’t.
can you believe it?
must be a move to show i can defy you now,
or that i've moved on,
or that i’m ready to forget,
ready to let go of that one-sided pact i had with you—
to finally prove i’m braver.
at least, that’s what it was supposed to mean.
but here’s the irony, lyon:
i used to think painting my nails would be the sign —
the sign — that i was finally letting you go.
that color meant closure.
that gloss meant growth.
that choosing a shade meant choosing myself instead of you.
but the moment the brush touched my nail,
i thought of you.
and when the color settled,
i thought of you.
and when it dried into something pretty,
something i was once too scared to wear because of you,
i still thought of you.
maybe all of this wasn’t a declaration of independence.
maybe it wasn’t proof that i had moved on.
maybe it was just a loophole.
an excuse to think about you.
an excuse to hold on a little longer.
an excuse to remember your voice,
your laugh,
your stupid insistence that nails didn’t suit me.
(you were wrong.
they do.)
because every time i see my glittered hand,
i remember you.
i am reminded.
you are still here.
here. with me.
even though others probably already forgot.
you are. with me.
i’m a little braver today, lyon.
but not that much.
turns out, the color fades.
the memory doesn’t.
maybe i’m meant to carry you a little longer.
---
a friend asked me recently if i knew what "second death" meant.
i do.
it’s when the world forgets you.
but i haven’t.
not yet.
not today.
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