I'm still thinking bout
you at 2 am but you
fell asleep at 10.

I can't remember much. Just odd distortions of static vertigo and flashes of lighting that won't quite fit into my sky of memories.*
Bright sparks that disappear as fast as they came, forever out of reach no matter how far I stretch my fingers. Even when the pictures appear on the back of my eyelids like a slideshow of movies I think I have seen before, and my brain whispers that those, those are memories - I cannot tell what was real and what was not. The first reason is because, well, you know. The second is because memories dull, as memories do, when time goes on. I used to hate it, because of the way I could not remember. There would be long blanks where I cannot tell what happened, where everything was a sharp white. Time is a reminder that anything, everything could have happened when I was gone, and there would be no way to tell if it was real.

I can't remember much. Just odd distortions of static vertigo and flashes of lighting that won't quite fit into my sky of memories. But I remember he had rough fingertips. His favorite color was red. I remember that his teeth would have been straight if it were not for the tooth on the right, which curved inwards, ruining what would have been perfect symmetry. He had hair that would turn curly if it grew out too much. He always had some observation, some revelation that lit his face up like a spotlight when he turned around to explain it to me. *He was a brilliant shooting star that vanished before I could lift my head.

I cannot remember his birthday or when we first kissed.
I don't know if all the time we spent was real.

I cannot separate the truths from the untruths, but I know that he - he was not a work of my muddled consciousness, not a work of fiction.

*I know he was real, as real as the Sun himself.

I can't remember much. Just stray threads and patches of mismatched fabric that will never find its place within my cluster of thoughts.*
Now all that remains are echoes of ancient conversations and whispers of drowsy lullabies. Because memories dull, as memories do, when time goes on. I had once hated it, the way it continued on, as if she was still here and everything was still okay. As if nothing interesting enough or important enough happened for it to falter. She was the epitome of interesting, the definition of important. But now I am humbled and appreciative of its regularity, its security - time will go on no matter what happens. I suppose you can say I found equal parts torture and salvation in time itself.

I can't remember much. Just stray threads and patches of mismatched fabric that will never find its place within my cluster of thoughts.
But I remember she had flowers on her boots and lashes that curled upwards. Her eyes were dark brown, so dark that they looked almost black. She was afraid of thunder and isolation. Her hair smelled of peppermint and she always had some poem, some song lyric dancing on her lips, waiting for the right time to emerge, bursting with personal emotions and relief. Her sky-scraping beauty was the least of her. *She was the moon who loved the Sun instead of the night sky.

I cannot remember how we met or when we first held hands.
I cannot fathom the names of her parents or her best friend's hair color.

But I remember that she - she was the meaning of Love.

*I do not love her, for she was Love herself.