the way I pulled tiny feathers out of your pillow
when you snored too loud for me to sleep,
the way the light off the water came in through the blinds.
I remember our afternoons, and how
they pretended to be early mornings,
with beer-soaked oranges on the porch.
I remember when you came home
and I rushed over. You had an oyster.
The oyster had a pearl. I had a chain.
And thus an artifact of us was born.
I remember burning boxes, books, and beer cans.
I remember solo cups and cinderblocks.
I remember flames.
I remember my back, pinned against the car,
with you telling me what I wanted to hear,
but holding back just the same.
I'm falling, too.
I remember how fun it was to be scared.
How fresh, how new.
I remember hot sand and hot lips and jellyfish.
You were the first, and I think you thought
you'd be the last. I guess we both lied.
I remember lying, all too well.
I remember the way you screamed at me,
the awful things you hissed with venom
in the voice that used to sing me to sleep.
Now I remember the hurt.
I remember that you're all I knew
for a long time. Almost.
Now I remember what it was like
to have you. And what it was like
to lose you. And what it's like to miss you.
Most of all I remember
hot wings, tea, and Pepsi.
Loud laughter and small smiles.
White hoodies and black tights.
I remember contrast.
Shocking, the things we remember.
The things that won't stop flooding the senses.
Like SoCal and weed.
Like liqour like licorice.
I wish I could remember your hands,
your favorite color, your crooked smile
that wasn't sarcastic, your favorite band.
I remember rough fingertips,
sometimes blue, barely there,
and red hot chili peppers.
I remember crying on your shoulder,
thinking it's a shame you wore white,
and wound up in Jersey at a coke party.
You should probably wash that out.
I remember wanting to remember
and trying to forget and losing
a battle within myself.
I remember the one naked picture
of me in existence, wearing your jeans,
and rushing to pull on your shirt
as your mother came up the stairs.
I remember the night we almost
crashed and burned, but had to pick
her up from jail, and it ruined the moment.
I remember being glad you answered the phone.
I remember Wilson, its opossum army against me,
and nearly wrecking my car.
Shaking on the side of the road,
calling you to calm myself until I had
the nerve to move the car again.
I remember the smell of my tires and the skidmarks they made.
I remember my vacations
and how you never came
because my mother didn't approve of us.
She thought we'd be better friends.
We can't be friends. You told me that.
I remember it always being more or less.
I remember leaving work and crying on the phone,
breaking down and telling you what I never should have said.
What I honestly don't regret now.
I remember running to you,
telling you I loved you and begging you to take me back,
and catching you before you went to her,
which I remember you confessed to later.
I remember playing Phantasy Star,
selling things in your room full of mushrooms.
I remember you wanting to try them.
I remember telling you no.
I remember the way I almost failed a semester
because of everything that happened between us.
I remember that every time I was lonely
I would call you, trying to hold onto the only
real love I've ever had.
I remember deciding I didn't ever love you.
I want to remember the little things.
Not the bad things.
Like how you almost called me a cunt.
Like how I would shake if I ever saw a silver contour on rt4.
Like how I heard things and names and almost threw up.
Like how every goddamn song by a certain band works for us.
Like how you've ruined
Applebee's, hotwings, Jager,
'It's Not Over,' the backseat of my car,
connecting the dots, jambi by tool,
and the anonymity of my deviantart.
As well as Australia.
And so, I write.
I write a tribute,
a memoir,
a tall tale of truth.
An indecipherable code
from which to read
truth and an apology.
I did love you,
just not the way that you needed me to.
I do love you,
just not the way that changes anything.
