The process of forgetting

First, you forget what you used to say to each other in the silence of a car, over a meal, over a cigarette. You forget the topics that ran through your tropical mind, you forget the random things he used to say. You forget how you used to talk to him, and you soon forget how to talk to him that when you encounter him again, you are at a loss for words and he would think that you've changed. You haven't. Only your memory has.

Then you forget his voice, and even though technology has made things so much easier, you still won't pick up the phone to call him, because you can't. You forget what he sounded like, his tones and thrills, how his voice would be at a higher pitch when he was excited, and short and curt when he was annoyed. You forget how sad he sounded when he called you late one night when things were still good between the both of you, you forget how depressed he always sounds anyhow.

Slowly, you forget how he looks like. You forget how he looked at you with an irresistible melancholy, you forget how many moles he has, you forget which direction he parts his hair, you forget how surprisingly soft his hair was, you forget how rough his stubble was against your lips, how it made your mouth red like you just smeared wine all over your jaw. You still remember the sort of clothes he used to wear because it's always the same damn thing, you remember details down to the color of his laces, but you can't remember how tall he was.

Lastly, you forget those little things, the sound of his footsteps, his stupid idiosyncrasies, his dreams, his favorite food. You forget thinking about how things could have been if you had handled it differently. You forget to miss him, and you forget to regret, but on bad days, you wonder if you've even forgotten anything at all.

How he smells like, you'll always remember. Stale cigarette breath and a scent like comfort.