Is anyone truly meant to be forgotten? Five years ago, I would have told you the answer to that is 'no,' but now…. Now I suppose I can't be sure of anything. I have pushed you from my mind time and time again. I have forgotten you, but each time you snake you way into my heart again and put me right back where we started.

I suppose I could just leave, I could just go—you did tell me to once. Do you remember? You wouldn't, your erasures work fine. It is only mine that end up botched, only mine that leave me with traces of memories of you. Nothing clear, mind you. Just faint glimpses of the life I lead with you as my co-pilot. I can almost smell the scent of your hair. You know how the past has a smell, but it always manages to evade you? It's that type of smell. Almost, but not quite, there. I remember you were the perfect girl for me, but I suppose you never would have liked to have been called that. You would have considered it classifying you as a "concept." You never did like that, having someone else try to figure you out. Learn what made you tick. I suppose you must be happier now, because the one man who ever got close can't even remember your face anymore. To me, you are merely a nameless entity. A person I know existed, but cannot find. I cannot place you within a time.

I lay on this bed and wonder if you ever laid here with me. I'm almost sure you did. I wonder if you slept next to me here. I wonder if you had sex with me here. I wondered if you erased me because you loved me, or because you hated me. I wonder how I felt about you. I wonder if you are one of the women I pass on street everyday. If I see you and never know. If we pass each other by and don't suspect a thing.

Did you ever live with me? Did I want you to marry me? Did I ever ask you?

Part of me wishes I could go back and have them finish the procedure. Part of me wishes I could go back and demand to know whom I had erased. But I can do neither—I cannot remember where the procedure was done.

All I know is that we have lived in a constant cycle of knowing and not knowing, remembering and forgetting. And maybe it's better to not know who you are this time around. Or maybe, if I did know, I could stop you from erasing your memory again. And if I stopped you, then I wouldn't try to forget you either. I can't know, though. I could never know. You are merely a shadow of the past, a ghost, and that is all you will ever be.

And this is how I live. I look at every woman who passes me, trying to figure out if she could be you. Somehow, none of them seem as though they could be you. They are too normal to be you—I remember you were exuberant. Exciting. Different.

I go to work, I come home. Sometimes, I go to Barnes and Noble on the way in between the two. I love to read. I wonder if you remember that. I wonder if you remember anything. There is a girl there, with brightly colored hair and strong opinions. I like her. She talks to me. She probably thinks I'm boring. In the end, I guess it doesn't matter. It's you I'm supposed to be with.

And in the end, I suppose that's what it comes down to—a tragedy of lost love long forgotten. But the faint ghost of you is etched into my heart, and, every day, I search.