she looks at me
and i remember all the little reasons
i didn't leave her.
speaking again now,
words rolling off her tongue
going on about something
and something.
i drift off into the sea of her voice
and there's something familiar about it,
a well-worn memory,
the tongue in cheek way she speaks
like she's dancing on the edge of
bursting out laughing
and teasing you mercilessly.
a memory that hits me
only sometimes
on sundays,
or when it's sunny.
running up and down the sidewalk,
the pink shirt i wore on our first date.
she,
in herself,
is a memory.
a fragment of bliss,
recorded and waiting
for me to hit play
and watch us from the beginning,
relive the moments
back when her hair was still long and i still
hoped the universe would allow
us.
faded and well worn
memories
kept in a box
i've locked away in my head,
and vowed to never open.
but sometimes i do anyway.
