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My Mind the Time Machine
By: River Williams

By: River Williams

I've spent most of the last two weeks trying to forget you, to avoid the places in my mind where the memories of you have staked their claim. I try to be in the present, or look to the future. Try to be excited about the bright path I'm following, freedoms of being single, the opportunities at my fingertips, the open road before me. But there are some things that just can't be fixed right now. I don't feel excited. I feel lost, missing something, part of me stuck in the past. You were so easy to crawl into, and just lose myself.

I'm failing, and falling. I keep slipping into the past. When I lie in bed there's no warm, familiar body next to me. Why did I feel so safe when you kissed me? That song, you know the one, it always reminds me of you. So many things I eat pull me back into moments we've shared together. Every sense is inundated with a memory of you. Each time they burst forth, often unwanted, dragging me back through the time stream. I'm lost to the present day, all encompassed, heart beating quickly. And then it's over, and I'm left, back in the present.

I made a poor decision as I traveled down into the south. I decided to stay with your friend Green. She brings you up constantly, asking me the details of how it ended, where you were going, what brought the breakup forth. Every moment with her is a reminder of your absence in my life, pushing me farther back in time. I still miss your calm presence, your breath on my neck, your laugh, the security in your words, laying my head on your chest. So I sit, I wander through time, allow the grief it brings. Then I trudge my way back to the present, through the swamp of memories, back into my body, back into these snowy mountains of North Carolina.