Every moment we were together, every second I held you in my arms, I put to use in memorizing you. I cataloged all your scars and found designs in the freckles that cover your body, like there would be a test later on. It turns out there was. The test comes every night as I try to fall asleep and find myself remembering you instead.
I could write novels about your eyes; how they shift from blue to green to stormy gray. I’d write about the way you lit up when you saw me, always until that last night. Your lashes framed your eyes perfectly, casting elegant shadows on your cheekbones in the light from the streetlamp outside the window.
The elegant column of your neck always smelled like the heady combination of your tropical flower shampoo and vanilla body wash. I lost hours murmuring love poems into that soft skin, wondering if you were even listening or just soothed to near sleep by my attention. At the base of your neck, right across the collarbone, were two thin scars. I’d kiss them whenever I could.
God, I miss you. I woke up the other morning and found I couldn’t remember if it was your left or right knee that had a scar from falling off your bike as a child. I spent the day in bed, trying to recall, but all I could think was how I wished you were with me, hair spread over the pillow and hiccupping laugh filling the room.
Memories fade or become muddled. I wish they weren’t all I had left of you.