I remember you. I remember your hands. I remember your fingertips on my skin—soft, gentle, firm. I remember your songs, and how you always told me to feel the lyrics. I remember the way you moved, the way you walked, the way you kicked a ball, the way you kept spontaneously grabbing doorframes and started doing pull ups. I remember the way you talked, the intensity in your voice when you said God exists, the sadness in your tone when you said you wanted to save your sisters.I remember your hugs, the warmth, the comfort you gave. I remember the way your face turns bright red whenever I cracked dirty jokes. I remember the way you play your guitar, the way your fingers move across a guitars neck—swift and smooth, always precise; and the look on your face—like you were somewhere else, like the world around you was nothing but a blur and all that existed was you and your music.
I remember you. I remember everything you said, everything you did, everything you made me feel. All the good, all the bad, all those colors and all those words. Everything. I remember everything.
I remember you. I remember you.
Could you do me this one final favor? If it's okay, if it's not too much to ask,
I hope you'll remember me too.
YOU ARE READING
I Give Up
PoetryThis is the story of how you hurt me. It starts with you, and that girl who broke your heart. When she left, off you went-walking around, trying to figure things out. It starts with me, and that boy who broke mine. When he left, I lost all my color...
