Just Please Don’t Forget Me

I’m afraid to think there will come a day where you don’t know me.

It’s been 7 months since we’ve spoken and 13 since I’ve seen you. We’ve gone longer than that before. But this feels too long. Too final.

I close my eyes and can still see that lopsided smile. Do you remember mine? Does it ever haunt your brain’s inner corridors, leaving an echo across a space it shouldn’t be in?

That dimple you said you could drown in is still here. Since you, no one has left a smile on my face so big, to bring it out as deep to be able to. No one has loved it as much as you.

My jeans are a little snug. I’d worry about not being aesthetically pleasing to anyone else, but not with you. I imagine you licking your lips, cupping your hand around my backside, then squeezing. You always did say my ass was your favorite part. You always did become weak at the knees of my curves. You admired me whatever the sight, really, on whatever dip or peak I was at on the fluctuating graph.

If you saw me now would it be the same? Would you look at me with the same smoldering eyes? Would you want me? Would it take every physical restraint not to act on it? Would it ache you to even have to look away? I must admit, even the thought brings me immeasurable pleasure and pain (in a way only ever you expertly could).

In this drought, it’s got me finally feeling rain kiss my skin, just imagining making eye contact with you again. Would you recognize the shade of my eyes, even from afar, would you see them there so dark but know the amber you’d come to face if you walked several feet my way? And if you did, would my voice sound strange or would you drown in the comfort of its familiarity?

I know I said I didn’t want to burn, not for you, not anymore. And I’m sorry, love, I know I said it to you in a poem. It’s just that I know letting go of whatever this thing between us is wouldn’t be so easy any other way. I know I said it hurt, but you know, you know, I’ve always loved those things the most.

I’ve always loved you the most.

(I’m still burning. I’m still hurting.)

I know there may be things I don’t know that others may be more familiar with. Like how you fold your clothes, how long your showers take and what time you prefer to eat dinner. And you may not know that I tend to keep my clean laundry in a pile before I ever get around to it, but when I do, I fold it symmetrically and impeccably. That I hang all my dresses according to length, which is directly relative to the occasion, and that my blouses are hung according to color and season. You may not know that the length of my showers is dependent upon my mood and that some nights I prefer to sit in the bath and just not think about existing. That I sometimes skip dinner, that I sometimes eat it twice, but I always have to eat it watching one of my TV shows and preferably with a glass of wine. That it doesn’t matter the time, because when I eat it I always wonder if you’d like what I had prepared, what my life would be like if I could cook not for one, not for two, but for you.

We may not know these mundane little things about each other. But we know each other in ways we’ve never let ourselves be in front of other people. We’ve given up control, lost it, and taken it, to and from each other. We’ve spent nights more decadent and uninhibited than most people could even fantasize. We’ve indulged in each other’s bodies like beasts and never felt as human. We’ve kissed and walked through Eden. You’ve roamed my skin and discovered universes nobody else knows exist. I’ve made you see colors non-existent in this world each time I so much as laid a fingertip on your skin.

Being naked was never enough. We needed more. More intimacy, more bare. We unzipped our flesh and told each other things most people keep secret. I let you hear words I held lodged in my throat. Words I was afraid would ever escape my mouth. You still kissed me. You made me feel unashamed.

I may not know when your alarm goes off or how many times you press snooze, but I know you. I know you in ways they never will. The things she hates, are things I love, things I know I could accommodate in my life.

I may be unfamiliar with your nighttime ritual, but I know what you like to do with that black leather belt you wear around your waist. I know what sounds you make, how your breathing becomes ragged as it’s striking through the air. I also know you don’t mind laying on your back and pretending you’ve given up power. I know that little spot on your ear that makes you shiver and roll your eyes to the back of your head. I know that dark look in your eyes and that you’re going to lick your lips before you bite. I know you’ve never called out anyone’s name the way you have mine.

You may not know I stay up later than I should and hate myself the next day, but you know the color and shape of my soul. You know the haunted house that is this body. That there’s this girl that sometimes screams and screams inside it. You know my vibrancy. But you also know I’ve given melancholy a spare key. You know where to touch me and how to touch me. You know the things that make my body shiver. You know I’m scared to let go of control but I need to. That I want to. You know I bruise easily, but that it gives me a thrill. You’re well aware I’ve always loved the things that hurt. You know how I can’t keep my eyes open and the way I bring my legs together and curl my toes when I’m slipping into ecstasy. You know nothing gets me there more than a hand around my neck and a thumb on that particular vein.

Only we know that feeling we have only ever gotten when together. That heat. How in those moments our hearts beat together and in sync.

The truth is we could never not know each other. I guess what I mean to say is please don’t forget.