I should not remember the color of a sweater,
white on a Wednesday, now trapping me
at the bottom of the seventh page in a story.
Already it is too uncomfortable for others to read,

but I worry that soon I will find myself
unable to peek over his thick arm, to return to a room
that has belonged to three different strangers since.
Even in the beginning of this fourth year

it took eight days to remember that it was February
and that for the first time it was my unfortunate turn
to experience it in its longer form. So I waited
until I found myself safe on the other side of spring,

awakened by the unexpected touch of purple acceptance
and the familiar comfort of light green childhood.
As she first revealed the details of their April life
after hiding for two years, I was able to appreciate

how similar our words are describing a city
where no one else has stayed. But soon I needed him
to tell me again how to ignore the music that played
while driving past the town I've only heard spoken

with an escaped accent. So I have waited
for June to pass, for it to bring me into
the final month of conversation that lingers
in piles of complicated research, faded

and yellowed by years of pink sunlight
that has never touched the warmth within.
I should not remember the return of snow,
strange on a late August day.

Alana Munoz

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