The Art of Forgetting

By Norma Leyva

Oceans Away

You said too much distance wasn't a valid reason to leave, but you were sitting next to me yet miles away. We promised each other climbs over mountains, but I can't even do a couple of hours. I salute those who share calls overseas. Perhaps I'm just too dependent on physical affection, but isn't love more than just sensation? You said my new solution was temporary, but it'll last more than we ever did.

Just a Day

I'm reading your letters again,
each word bringing forth a lump in my throat.
I wish we still wrote to each other- well, I wish you wrote me back because God knows every sentence is for you and all of my work revolves around your name.

It’s just one of those days where I think I hear your voice while I'm listening to music or a breeze deceives me into thinking it carries your scent.
I'll get over it, it's just a day, I'm trying my best to push you away.


I wrote you letters every night, checking up to see if you were alright because the night before you didn't call to say goodnight, the bond between us doesn't even feel tight.
I wrote you letters before each test, trying to comfort your nerves and stress, but my eyes you can't even address.
I wrote you letters at each sunset, reminding you of how we met, trying to tell you about how my feelings for you were all set. You're picking other girls to fall into your net.
I wrote you letters in midst of tears, explaining how I'm losing faith in these upcoming years, I want to run to you, but you're nowhere near.
I'm writing you letters, but these I'll never send, because what we had I'm through trying to mend.

Kitchen Table

Across the kitchen table, you stand with inward brows and clenched fists. The kettle hums behind me, the vapor in accordance to your face. My fingers trace the edge of the old wood, friction causing my skin to burn. I run my fingers once, twice, now three times and your eyes remain locked on me. Your muscles bolt in place as you turn your body to me. Flinching to your movement, the kitchen table has begun to look shorter. A minute ago, the stained wood appeared to stretch for miles, a distance that was created at your arrival. The kettle screeches now, metal rapidly tapping against the surface I step back, your hands pulsing along with my heart. Your features are now rough, jaw prominent and lips pressed. The eyes that once coated me in comfort are now drowned in lack of reasoning. This kitchen table at which we sit across each night is now the platform of yet another argument. There’s a knot in my stomach, and I gaze into your eyes hoping that somehow you, too, are thinking of this kitchen table. Along with the other furniture that fills this house, I suppose they just reminds us of long lasting objects made up of temporary pleasure.


  1. Both the visual and the piece itself is beautiful, truly amazing

  2. <3 <3 always such passion in her work