Twisted Memory

As my eyes close, my mind drifts into a memory, stirring up long-forgotten feelings. I find myself standing in my old high school, speaking with a guy I once knew, once adored even, but, strangely, it’s not really him. His face isn’t the same—it’s recognizable in some way, but certainly not his. This is a man I’ve never met. Just the same, though, I catch myself in the resurfaced emotion I must have had back then. I speak with him about nothing in particular, all to keep his attention, all so he won’t fade away. All reason drains away, and, more than anything, I want him to want me.

As he speaks, I try desperately to follow his pace and not get lost in his words, but his boyish nature blinds me. He slowly walks closer to me; I smile awkwardly and blush. I’m caught by the look in his eyes, and my body becomes hot. My heart races, and I struggle to breathe evenly. All thought empties from my mind. 

Suddenly, I feel his hand on my cheek as my chin tilts up on its own. A sort of drunkenness has overtaken me. His fingers slowly move down my neck while his other hand rests on my hip. His body moves closer, and as his lips press to mine, I give in to the desire, and any resolve I might have been holding onto shatters. I close my eyes and disappear into myself, lost in the feeling of finally being with him. 

When I open my eyes, he steps back from me, and I struggle to keep myself from falling. My body is weak. His polite smile fades slightly as he says something that I can’t process. I don't remember him leaving, but I stand in that room for some time before I find the ability to move, and when that finally happens, he is no longer there. 

My dream becomes lucid and I look for him, but he is nowhere to be found. I call for him, but he doesn’t answer. My subconscious merged my past with a fantasy.

The radio comes on and I wake to my imagined lover singing the words “no strings attached”. My past has become unrecognizable and I wonder whether I really shared a kiss with anyone at all, or if my mind had replaced the memory with the music in my head.

A yearbook is only a reminder of the past, not a capsule that retains untainted memories, only momentary images of those once known.

(For "Twisted Memory", I would like to thank my editor, Emily Schutsky, for her contributions to my writings in general and this piece specifically. She was more than just an editor on this, she added significantly to the style and overall feel!)