When the winds first scattered us, naked to the plains, we crawled from the muck; we crawled from our caves. And I remembered you. I remembered you. You were a distant mote sunken in my brain, left hopelessly alone until I gave you a name. Because I remembered you. I remembered you. Before I found a face to match what I thought you should be, I found out that all along you were tucked away inside of me. The idea of something that I needed to stay sane; a hunger left unsatiated from before we ever came. Like a “made in…” stamp from a factory floor; a tag in a shirt. A warm radiant core emanating and resonating from a forgotten shred of us. I gave you a name and brought to the surface. Because I remembered you. I remembered you. I remembered you. I remembered you.
A reminder at the end of the day that you spoke to me when I was half asleep. I shrugged it off, as if it was me being tired that made it strange, but you were quite peculiar. You spoke as if in broken English; as if you had forgotten, momentarily, who you were. Maybe you were just remembering who you were, and for a brief instant you were truly yourself. I could not remember what it was you said, only how you sounded and how it made me feel.