DIE FORM DES VERSÄUMTEN: Wanting to remember, finding only fog

I sit by the window, a cup of lukewarm tea in my hand, staring into space. A name lingers on the tip of my tongue, a face appears briefly and then vanishes. Everything is there, and yet out of reach. Like a word that slips away again and again. I smile, though I don’t know why. Maybe because even what’s missing leaves something behind.