Moi, The Fine Line

Postcards from Morocco – I

My Love,

Oh, my love, as I drive through the hills erect upon the body of Morocco I think of you. I love you but I do not remember. You once sang and danced in my mind’s eye, ever present and so very vivid. Now you fade.

I stare out through the window and pass a rock, a tree, a goat and but a moment later I cannot remember the goat or the tree or the rock, for the image of a hawk has pushed it out of memory. The skinny horse replaces the hawk. The panoramic views, offered by the driver, pushes out the memory of the skinny horse. And so the cycle continues until everything is forgoten.

I see a twinkle of your eye and I swoon. Then I question myself; is that the way it twinkled? I forget to answer when an image, long passed, enters my mind – that smile. The one that had gripped my tendons even before your “hello”. The sound of your voice in my imagination makes me sick. Badoom Badoom goes the palpitations of my heart. I cannot really remember. I really cannot remember.

I sit back and let the wind wash over me. It’s soft against my skin. I kick my slippers off and breath. I am really here, speeding through sandy golden hills which are further baking in the sun. The road is bumpy so I cannot fall asleep although the drive is long. But why should I want to sleep? I have dreamed for a year to be where I am now; and there is no more need for sleep or dreams – not for the moment. I think back and then I think forward – whatever. The car slows and the guards wave us by, which confuses the driver but he continues to drive, slowly to be sure. “But they always stop,” he says and shrugs.

Because I cannot remember, anxiety spikes. The twinkle, the smile, that voice, all inauthentic; replicas. They are not apart of you. My love. They are imitations of memories of you and nothing more. Can I love you so? But it is not you any longer. I loved you because I cannot remember. You’ve faded.

C

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