I still remember the way your room looked that night.
I still remember the books on your shelf, how one of them leaned on the wall at just the right angle to stop the rest of them from toppling down. I still remember the mirror you had in that little nook beside your closet ⏤ I still remember it was chipped where you accidentally threw your brush at. I still remember the broken lightbulb that you kept saying you’ll get fixed. I still remember the way you laughed when I pointed out how I’ve heard that before. And I still remember the whispers we exchanged, laying in bed, darkness all around, intertwining our fingers to the moonlight seeping through your curtains as the rest of the world sleeps soundly around us.
But I can’t, for the life of me, seem to remember what you look like anymore.
I can’t remember your hair. I can’t remember your eyes. I can’t remember your smile, your voice ⏤ I can’t even remember your name anymore.
But then I’d get this tingle in my hands that reminds me of how your hair used to feel when I ran my fingers through it. Then I’d see someone familiar on the street and feel my chest constrict with both longing and dread for a person I no longer recognize. Then I’d turn the television on, hear the dips and quirks in an actor’s voice, and just know, somehow, that I’ve heard something like it somewhere before.
Then, I swear, I’d even dream of you.
And then sometimes, some fairly salient times, I’d feel the wind rush past my face and hear it whisper ⏤ just a tad, just a little ⏤ a name which, in another time, I might’ve been able to recognize as yours.
But in that brief moment where I’m suddenly struck with the feeling of a memory I could never let go but never fully hold, I’m reminded of what it feels like to truly love something enough for the heart to remember what the mind has long since forgotten.
