The Forgetful

My searching hands
were left bare
by the naked bed
which bear
no one but me.

Sighing, I know
the drill
I get out of our
blanket-made hill
to find he.

Welcoming sunrise
kisses my just opened eyes,
the noise of the road
whispers cluttered sighs,
there is he.

Hugging his guitar,
plucking eloquently,
as if no one’s around,
just his music and he.
Please look at me.

In scintilla
of a second,
he looks up with
fingers in chords,
He don’t know me.

I force a shy smile,
as my salty droplets fall,
he only knows his music
and forget almost all,
including me.

Tightly, I hug myself
and pray tomorrow will be different.

—

Word count: 115

©2017 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.

Photo credit: Sunayana MoiPensieve

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For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) March 21, 2017.

and for dVerse‘s OpenLinkNight #192 hosted by Grace.