I remember. The night was still warm, the grass underneath my feet soft. You pulled me closer. You wanted to talk. I was tired of talking. The apology sat on your tongue, the one I deserved, but I didn't want to hear it. I asked you to tell me something worthwhile instead. You said you'd really tried to move on, but you ended up looking for me in everyone you started seeing. In everyone you talked to. In everyone you kissed. You said you'd never met anyone quite like me. I shouldn't have given in, should've told you that you'd had your chance, many of them. But this was the kind of attention I'd been starving for. The kind of warranty I'd demanded, even though there would never be an insurance. And true enough, a few months later I found you were slipping away from me again. Slowly but steady, like a river current. Your cups disappeared from my cupboard. Your shirts vanished from my drawer. Your hand slid out of mine. You might not remember it, now that you're happy, now that you've moved on - for real, this time. But I will remember. I'll always remember what you said to me that night.
remember that night / n.j.
