This is hard to admit — but I think about you more than I should.
Reminders of our time together flit endlessly in and out of my world.
Memories… places… people. Threads, unwound and flailing.
Maybe I liked how you gave me a way to be myself. And maybe I haven’t quite found that anywhere else.
And maybe I regret never really being yours.
Always lost in some other place while you opened up to me. Took me in. Held me close. All while I was never quite there.
I remember the river and the stars and the sky. Cigarettes and cheap wine. Ripples by the edge of a lake. Long conversations under grubby streetlights. And the rain.
Always the rain.
And maybe I was never right for you — the same way I was never quite right for anyone, or anything. But in that moment, at that place, in that time — you were exactly what I needed.
In that brief, irreplicable instant of infinity.
Transience means I don’t have a ‘you’ to go back to. And I don’t think that’s what either of us is looking for. Ideas remain ideas. And I think I recall the idea of you.
More so than the place.
And so we drift endlessly in our own worlds. Occasionally crossing, sometimes wondering, always remembering.