With an eraser, someday, you’ll remove me.
Like lemon rubbed against the stain on a white shirt,
I will be reduced to a faded, once upon a time.
You’ll edit your memories and snip out scenes,
Delete them before you can even feel.
Because confronting it is unwanted discomfort,
Rather let it be forgotten, lost under the heaps,
Of books and old newspaper gatherings.
Just before you finish your novel, research material,
Lying strewn about your desk, not me.
Not my memory, or words, and yet,
Just like that, I will drift back into your mind.
Perhaps as a long lost folk song that rests in our mouth,
Waiting acknowledgement, waiting voice,
I will be but a spectre, waiting for you.
If ever again, you want to remember me,
You need not fumble in the drawers,
Or look behind the doors and inside cupboards.
Just pick up your eraser, stare at its soft edge,
Misshaped by repeated use, and you’ll see me there.
Invisible, effaced, but traces of me might persist,
In what isn’t there, there shall I be.
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