“I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.” - Charles Bukowski
I remember the time you travelled those 180 something miles again just to see me. The day you were going home, I surprised you with breakfast in bed. Something I swore I'd never do back during my angsty, anti-men and single days. While we ate and watched Adventure Time on television, you reached for the can of PikNik we bought the previous day.
"Try it. It's pretty good, actually." You said, offering me the can.
I raised a quizzical eyebrow at you, feeling a bit offended that you'd forget such an obvious detail about me. "Um, duh. You know damn well that this is my fav--" and then I felt something strange in the can and pulled out a necklace.
Anyway, I just realized that I wrote so much about how another person hurt me in the past, that sometimes I'd lay awake at night and think of that time. It confused me on why I'd still think of that time when it's obviously over, but realized that it's probably because I wrote about those days so much, but barely wrote about you.
I always wondered what it would be like to write about being so immersed in love that you're actually scared that you'd drown in it. But the thing is, you make me so happy that sometimes I am left with no more words. I don't ever want to forget the things about you. When things go wrong for us, I never want to forget how you made me laugh. So I'll start writing again.
