Nonce.

I put so much stock in words it's hard to admit that actions speak so much louder, that our omissions are actions and we've gone so long without talking that I don't even remember what it was we were trying to ignore in the first place. I can read more truth into silence than a year's worth of platitudes, my precious words unable to obfuscate the looking glass so that what I see is not a wonderland, but a place where black is white, left is right, and the Queen of Hearts is one cruel, cruel broad. The space between us is no longer filled with words, and I wonder how you read this emptiness, these gaps as deep and vast and colorful as the Grand Canyon. I bet I'm whited out.

I've often wished for a time machine--oftener than not in recent years--and never once did I realize that I've always possessed one. My memory erodes in a turbulent river of alcohol, the edges dulled and then washed away until the past is completely obliterated. I don't remember you, us, what your hair smelled like as I nuzzled against it on the pillow next to mine, the way the stubble of your beard scraped against my skin as we kissed. I don't remember the cities we visited, where we ate, or the hotel rooms we shared. As far as memory is concerned we never happened, and LIKE THAT I've erased all of my mistakes, all the ways you hurt me, betrayed me, lied to me and called it love.

I've survived the rapids, found calm waters, and suddenly I have everything I've ever wanted. And I couldn't be . . . .