There are specific memories that I wish that I could capture and preserve perfectly, with out any trick of my imagination trying to embellish or lessen the moment.
Very early this morning, we sat side by side on a wet bench, barely under the cover of a tree across the path. I can hear the rain falling on the leaves, on the pavement, on his jeans. I can feel the cold drops on the back of my neck. I can taste the cigarette, smell the smoke. I want to savor every word he said, the feel of his head on my shoulder. Our feet side by side on the sidewalk. My hand on his on my leg. The song that he sang. I want it all, perfectly stored away.
I want to remember laying side by side on my bed, our feet on the ground, our hands over our own faces, not speaking.
I want to remember the feel of his heart beating through my shoulder as we sat on the couch, his head leaning heavily against mine, and his deep breathing as he slept. I want to remember the dread of his phone vibrating in his pocket indicating the cab was here to take him away for six long months.
I want to remember the heaviness of it, the impossible weight of goodbye.
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