I don’t want to forget how we first met. Blue t-shirts, talk of how you hate this band.
Don’t want to let go of your words which resonate so loudly within my ears tonight, make their way onto top shelves of my thoughts and pick up pens with their melodies to write upon the pages of my memory.
I don’t want to let go today, of the ways you once whispered so delicately the hopes you had for the sky in the autumn mornings. The way you cheered on the sun as it rose or how your fingertips played with starlight against the evening sky.
I don’t want to forget the nights in which, somewhat like cream mixing with cups of black tea, the winter winds mixed with our exhales, our white flags of surrender to the cold.
I can’t forget the smell of dark leather bus seats, your closed eyes illuminated by passing traffic lights. Or the buzzing sound that street lamps make when you laugh beneath them in the morning.
I can’t see what it is that makes the earth spin around faster than cold carnival rides, empty subway trains or spoons in cracking coffee cups, because, presently, they all seem so much bigger than the world.