I could have made a time capsule out of you.
If I had kept the cork from the first bottle of wine we spent an hour trying to open with a fork,
Or bottled the drops of sweat that spilt from my hand into yours on our first date.
If I was insane -
I’d have stolen your copy of that French movie we didn’t even pretend to watch.
I would have mourned the loss of the sharpie you used to write my name on your arm.
The clinical definition of insanity is -
I would have recorded the one-eyed “good morning”s that slid out through your perfect snaggle-tooth.
Doing the same thing over -
I’d have frozen my face at the moment when you told me to just use your toothbrush because our mouths were already friends.
And over -
But then I’d have the weeks of silence you screamed at me.
Again -
Until finally all evidence of you faded from me.
Expecting a different outcome.  
And the most pathetic part is that if I had made that time capsule, I would be the worst time capsule owner in the world. I’d open it every day and pretend it was all happening over and over again.