He will remember the wine stains
on my dress, my bruised feet giving way from misjudgment and 4 inch heels. A
hazy recollection of straddling and calling out for a god who was nowhere at
that hour and is nowhere now. What he won’t remember is how comfortable and
safe I felt in his arms, let alone the fact that it was the first time I had
felt that way in months.
Maybe he will remember my name, after
all, it was profusely repeated like a child calling for its mother. Maybe I
will remember how nice he was before he didn’t call. Maybe I will accept it for
what it was, a single moment that managed to eclipse all others in its
I hope he doesn’t remember how
eager I was to give my number, digits trembling from my lips. A tremble much
like what his lips did to mine. I hope I don’t remember his face, so that I
don’t gravitate toward him if I ever see him again.
I hope this doesn’t define me,
because I loved every second of it. I hope it doesn’t define him because he is
still the nicest boy I ever kissed.