Hope

I always write about what I remember but I never think about what you do.

Perhaps you remember sitting at that stop sign at two in the morning, the cool air heavy with what we couldn’t say. “I’ve never stayed alone before,” my words betraying my desires. Maybe you remember me asking you to come as I still hear your voice urging me to step onto that bus, to ride until our eyes met once again.

Or perhaps it’s that first letter, the one you never expected, the one I wrote a dozen times. Maybe you remember what it felt like to see my name, to run your fingers across my words, to devour my language the way we had once devoured each other.

Maybe you remember sitting at work and wondering what I was doing, alone in your house, your room, your life. Perhaps it’s the waiting that lingers in your mind, the relief you felt to see me at the end of the night, perched on your bed, waiting for you.

Or maybe you remember reading letter after letter, aching to talk to me but knowing it was wrong. Perhaps you only remember the pain I caused in loving you when you weren’t allowed to love me back. Maybe all I am for you is pain, injections of agony into otherwise serene days. Perhaps my notes and letters only serve to remind you of what you’ve lost, a realization of what, in your mind, can never be again.

I never really think about what you remember. I just hope you do.

~Patience

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