Anasthesia

I am the opposite of amnesia,

Because I remember with impressive intensity,

Because I remember with intimidating alacrity,

Memories under anaesthesia

Of hearing, seeing, touching you.

But never for real feeling you.

And though I can remember the exact hue of your eyes,

The way lavender and lemon lavishly loved your skin,

Each ebony lock teased into an individual bobby pin,

And how your face came alive in gleeful surprise.

The sly smile when you finally got what you wanted,

The bell-peal laughter when your every wish was granted.

Your smiles, your laughter were intoxicatingly beautiful.

And I was the lucky fool who got it all.

I can remember the perfect crystal of each tear,

As they fell one by one into a painful purgatory.

And I was it- your anger, your disappointment, your fear.

I couldn’t take it, being the villain of your fairy-tale story.

You couldn’t fake it: the dented armour left you unimpressed.

Amusement turned to agony. Fascination turned to frustration.

In peacock blues and stupendous scarlet you dressed.

I hovered to the side, your rusted attendant, placed above his station.

I left for you, you know.

And you say that it was for my sake

You let me go. I know.

We cleaved into two, an even break.

But I’m the opposite of amnesia,

So I remember the hazy medicated quality

Of those happy memories of anaesthesia.

Maybe I was high, but at least I was happy.

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