He’s like aftertaste, bitter yet lingering. He’s like an afterthought, brief yet meaningful. He’s like aftermath, sometimes peaceful, sometimes destructive.
The thing about ‘afters’ is they arrive after it has began. Like, his riches revealed themselves when he started fading away from my memory. One thing I’m sure of: he’ll never be analogous to the traces of my memory that decayed.
The reason, you ask?
Because he’s like semantics to me. Intact in my long term memory, if not forever. This doesn’t imply that his memory won’t be eternal, it implies that his memories will stop bothering me after a while. It’ll no longer be like a long, forgotten sentence that I can use, occasionally. It’ll be like the word I misread. The word I always end up misreading.
Which will ultimately lead me to misspell it.
Because maybe, just maybe, he’s supposed to be misspelled. So that someone would come and rectify the spelling. For, if that someone rectified the only word I misspelled every time I wrote it, I guess he’s the word I can never afford to misspell.