Forget Me Not

Memories are a fickle thing to Lenore, remembering the way the sun rests gently on her skin and the feeling of rain on her tongue are different from the way she recalls interactions, human interactions.

She doesn't remember him, the way his curls lay untamed as soon as night begins to fall, the way he'd knock gently on her door to avoid waking the woman clinging to her at the days end as if it were a sin, the way his voice became pitchy when disheveled, or the way his eyes shone like the sea with the mischievous glint of an idea. What she does remember is the way his eyes become stormy at the mere mention of her past.

She doesn't remember her. The way platinum curls bouncier than his rested upon her shoulders, the way she'd avoid the rain like a plague, the way her footsteps sounded, the way blood stained her hands, the way her eyes shone brighter than the sun itself when the light hit them at a particular angle, the way her eyebrows quirked slightly when focused, the way her laugh reminded Lenore of wind chimes, the way she looked at her.
Yet she remembers tear-stained cheeks and an expression on her face she'd never seen before, not even in their past.