Thursday, May 14, 2009

I Gave You The Only Copy I Ever Had Of The Poem I Wrote For You. Now I'm The Only One Growing Old With Memory.

How long had it been there? Every last one of her secrets compressed under the springs of a mattress. She opened the notebook and felt an immediate sense of nostalgia. How could it be that she was this happy such a short time ago? Before closing it (and vowing to never open it again for fear of reopening the fresh wounds lining her heart) she saw a sliver of blue peering out between the white pages, lined in blue. She pulled the scrap of blue paper out, confused. She had no recollection of writing the words, but it was her handwriting and most absolutely her memories; exactly as she saw it in her head every morning: "I remember three things from that car ride. Kissing the clock for the first time at 11:11 for the only reason I've been kissing it since, best friends means friends forever and never hurting to kiss someone so badly in my life"

I'm sorry that my teardrop smeared the last few words. But you know what they said.


  1. I realize this is kind of morbid, but it's comforting knowing that we're both constantly, simultaneously in pain. It's nice to know I'm not doing this alone.

  2. Misery loves company, I suppose ha.