The Weight of Remembering
I remember the whisper of your breath against my collarbone, shivers dancing down my spine like secrets only we knew.
I remember the way your eyes would glow when laughter spilled from my lips, your silly jokes, your clumsy lines— how they made me yours.
I remember waking in your arms, softness blooming in your gaze, as if morning belonged to us alone.
I remember our first date, your trembling hands, the nervous smile that felt like home.
I remember meeting your parents, their warmth wrapping around me, their words painting you as someone reborn in joy.
I remember how you melted beneath my fingertips on the hardest days, how our bodies fit like puzzle pieces beneath a blanket of dreams.
I remember the first crack— your voice sharp, your walls rising.
I remember the silence that followed, the way you drifted, as if love was something you could misplace.
I remember her name, the weight of betrayal settling like ash beneath my skin.
I remember their shock, their promise— that I was still theirs, even when you weren’t.
I remember packing boxes, my heart splintering with every folded shirt, every goodbye.
I remember everything— the good, the bad, the ruin.
And I hate myself for it. Because despite the wreckage, despite the scars, I still love you.
And I hate myself more because of that truth.