Tonight's Poet Corner: Prosopamnesia
Prosopamesia by Belinda Roddie There are days and days and days and days when I remember faces, but not names, and then I remember names, but their faces are scraped away like wet sand from the lonely sole of a shoe. Like the time I remembered, "That's my first love from high school," only not recalling the monosyllabic wonder she uttered while pausing for breath in between my lips: but then Rose comes to mine, and all I see is red. Rich, stereotypical red. All while I gaze upon a scratched mirror and come to believe that I have grown new scars, like cat's whiskers, to help me sense my way to beauty's door. All while I sip on cosmic liqueur because stars are too hot and too distant to gain youth from. They are old, I remind myself, and are ready to die, if not already dead. And blind as I am, to both lovers and loathers alike in my life, I still cannot detect their final smiles.