Life is spent begging to be remembered. It’s like I don’t exist, really. I must convince others I am real or else I may just be a figment of my own imagination. And so here I am again, pen and paper; hoping these pages won’t disappear. The ink is there, existence of me alive in time. In the same way, I’ll look into your eyes begging you to remember every cave of dark green and pool of droughting blue. I speak whispers with my mouth near to you so that you can feel the warmth of my breath and remember the soft words I needed you to hear. Feel the uncalloused hands wrapping around yours, the hum of my car beneath us. I am real. I am here. And I love you. **If you ever remember me, just remember how I loved you. If I was ever real, it was because you believed I was.