Forgetting

The sight of forgetting is the city lights at night, stars against a black ocean of silent roads and shadows.

The sound of forgetting is music blaring through speakers, so loud you have to open your mouth to let the sounds escape, lest your head explodes.

The shape of forgetting is a shot glass filled with clear liquid, salt shining around its rim. Somewhere close by there is a lime, or maybe there isn’t.

The smell of forgetting is the choking but heady toxicity in the glass. It’s the same smell as my nail polish remover.

The taste of forgetting is a scarlet flame. I imagine the blood, rich and thick, will begin running down my throat, but there is nothing – only a faint remnant of the poison.

Everything is fine now.

I have forgotten it already.