Memory Now

It chews quietly.
Patiently.
Waiting for the day it can finally pronounce my name
without me getting in the way.

Each morning I wake up a little less,
find pieces of myself missing—
the name of my childhood dog,
the shape of my mother's hands,
the reason I used to fear the dark.
Now there are only holes
where memories should be,
and something else filling them in.

I catch myself speaking words I didn't choose,
laughing at jokes I don't understand.
My reflection practices expressions
when it thinks I'm not looking.
Sometimes my hands move without permission,
reaching, grasping, learning
the weight of the world they'll inherit.

It's studying me.
Taking notes in the margins of my nervous system,
rehearsing my gestures,
my gait, my grief.
It knows my voice better than I do now—
every crack, every tremor,
the way I say "I'm fine" when I'm not.

I wonder if anyone will notice
when the last of me dissolves,
when it finally wears my skin
without the struggle underneath.
Will my friends see the difference
between me and the thing that answers to my name?

Or has it already happened?

Maybe I'm the memory now,
the ghost haunting my own body,
growing fainter with each passing hour
while something else grows strong,
something patient and hungry
that has been here all along,
just waiting for me
to finish
disappearing.