Exhibits

Have you been?
Did you hear?
The museum is open to view.

I forget what it's called.
I can't remember right,
but I almost had it in my mind.

Either way, I think I'll go.
I think I will look at all it holds.

I'll pass a page on a glass stand.
It's old and brown and stained.
It's a love letter to someone who's gone.

It said,

“Dear so-and-so,
I wish it could have lasted longer, dear.”

And after that, I didn't want to read more,
for I knew a letter once,
so familiar,
just like that.

And I walked past a painting
with a fingerprint,
with drops of blue paint
resembling tears.

It said something about someone
who made an impact
that almost lasted a year.

So I went on,
not wanting to think
how this museum holds things
I can relate to.

I saw a mug stained with coffee.
It had a chipped rim,
and lipstick was still placed there.

And as I passed it,
it was like I could hear someone
wanting to yell, stay here.

But their tongue was tied,
and their lips were sealed.

So I went on.

Then I came across a banner
that was red.

It held a name
I swore I had meant—

but if I had...

I probably wouldn't be here
remembering your name,
but speaking it.

And I went on
to see a picture of me,
holding the things I wanted to forget:

Love letters,
help-me notes,
tears of loss,
and almost.

Now I remember
what it's called.

The Museum of Memories,
and people who almost stayed.

How did I forget
my own name?