I am happy.

Finally, happy.

But sometimes, when the wind blows in just right and you can smell that hint of clean before the storm,
Or on quiet nights alone when the house is still and I lie curled under my cool sheets waiting for sleep,

The memory of what you were to me creeps inside and grips my heart.

When I’m blanketed in silence and the slight pressure in my ears is enough,
Or when the telling of another’s grief leaves me feeling heavy, knotted and small,
and then I realize it’s because I know.
I know that we have matching pieces of dark in us, them and me, and they recognize each other.

I am happy.

But to live is longing both to never forget, and never remember. Because forgetting means that piece of your soul and that fragment of your life were never really important, and remembering is proving that it was important enough to break you.

Finally happy.

But sometimes, when my heart beats and I can hear the sound of my own breath, I’m haunted by everything we were, and will never be.

And I remind myself again to forget.