She Has Become

The light fell thin through the curtains. He sat at the desk. Pen in hand. Notebook scarred with false starts. His handwriting drifted, halted, shrank.

He wrote what he knew.

The green scarf she wore every winter, knotted wrong on purpose.

The smell of yeast on her wrists from bread she refused to buy.

The way her laugh came from deeper than her body should’ve held.

Clear enough. But not what he reached for.

He set the pen down. Rubbed the stiff joints of his fingers. Picked it up again.

Her face

He wrote the words. Crossed them out. Tried again.

cheekbones

eyes

lips

Then nothing. Nothing after. Words sitting, pretending to be answers.

He pressed harder. As if ink could pull her back. A color? brown. Or gray. Eyes he had kissed a hundred mornings. Eyes that weren’t here now.

He turned the page. Drew instead. A circle. Two dots. A line. A child’s face. He dropped the pen. Ashamed.

He thought memory would come when called. Loyal. But it staggered. Limped. Lied.

He shut his eyes. Tried to see her. Saw her body at the sink. Hands in water. Apples. Shoulders bent. Face gone. Always gone.

He opened his eyes. Blank page waiting.

The pen dug. Ink blotted dark.

I can’t see you anymore

The line stood alone. Black. Final.

She has become faceless.

He set the pen aside. Closed the journal and sat.

Staring.

Raised a hand. Touched his own face. Just to be sure.