An Appeal for Oblivion
Pray let my name grow dim within your mind,
as wounds once did beneath my patient silence—
for I, too, learned to forget
that flesh may ache,
and blood may bear the burden of neglect.
Let memory loosen its severe embrace.
The tightness at the heart,
the breath that faltered in the dark—
these were but trifles, it would seem,
outshone by the careless brightness of your mirth.
Should you persist in thought of me,
no peace shall visit you.
He who stands unmoved before another’s ruin
finds little shelter
when sorrow knocks from unfamiliar hands.
There shall come an hour
when recollection moistens the eye,
and conscience asks—
did I, too, take comfort
in wounding one who loved me well?
Therefore, forget.
I see no gentler mercy for your rest.
And yet—how grievously my spirit stirs
at the mere wish
that you might stand untroubled.
Oblivion, then, be kind.
For while your image keeps its vigil,
sleep denies me sanctuary.
Only your forgetting
shall grant me unguarded nights.
Thus I commend you to your peace—
from a distance,
with every good intention—
and ask but this:
that you forget me.