Sometimes, as she stands waist-deep in water under a cold moon, she will allow herself to hope, to place her fingers to her lips in a whistle and wait for something she doesn't expect will ever arrive. (She comes away a little more empty each time.)
And so she has mastered the art of forgetting, of peeling away layers of memory as a reptile sheds its hide.
The remembering is simply not worth it, not worth the crushing weight of stone on her chest, not worth the damp places on her pillow when she wakes from dreams of lakes and sunrises and gentle smiles in the sun.
(Forget, forget, forget, until all that's left is the phantom imprint of his touch upon her skin.)