When I remember you, I remember you in bits and pieces; like unfinished sentences.
Like a poorly crafted movie that knows no fluidity of transition, there was nothing elegantly seamless about it. In fact, you could see the clear edges, the abrupt punctuation. It is not like a gradient where the cobalt sea melts with the teal of the sky, but rather, a series of ricocheting between remembering and forgetting, remembering and forgetting.
Laughter. Drive-thru’s past midnight. I don’t remember enjoying a fudge sundae that much, and I don’t even fancy ice cream.
An argument – to agree to disagree on 80’s music and peanut butter.
Late night mundane talks. “I had a really crappy day.” “Tell me about it.”
Apologies. “I can’t go to bed mad at you.”
Long drives. That priceless look on you when you go passed the speed limit.
Moments of pride. “Fine.”
A pause. The hint of a smile that grew from the corner of your mouth. “I love you”, you exhaled.
I remember seconds of you, seconds of me, seconds of us. Fragments that I have never been able to play as a whole.
You weren’t a blur, but rather, a recurring clarity.