I can recognize the adult faces of children I was in school with. I can remember the dragon tattoo on the forearm of a boy I only shared one conversation with. So, please imagine what I can remember of you. I hate the fact that I remember it. The way you fidgeted with your hair, the way you ate like a slob, the way you’d keep me up late with a call. I remember it because I loved it all. Every second of every hour. Every succulent and every flower. I gave them to you even though you hated them. Still, with grace you accepted my rose. Only to see my smile and the widening of my nose. I remember how we found out you were a comic and I was a poet. In the way that my jokes didn’t land and you couldn’t rhyme. Right then and there we were over. We just didn’t know it. I remember our final conversation. I was headed home and you were head to New York. That night we didn’t say goodbye, only a “see you later.” I remember feeling like that was a lie.
