We draw maps of places we have never been

and call it memory.

The borders shift each time we look —

a coastline eaten by the tide of years,

a mountain range that flattens

under the weight of telling.

I have forgotten the colour of the door

but not the sound it made when closing.

I have forgotten your words

but not the shape your mouth made

forming them.

This is the cruelty of it:

we do not forget whole things.

We forget in pieces,

the way a painting fades —

first the background,

then the hands,

then the eyes,

until only the feeling remains,

frameless and untitled.

I keep these maps in a drawer

I pretend not to open.

They are beautiful in their inaccuracy —

continents of you

that no longer exist.