Dear Me (age undefined),
You are the coffee, sometimes. The burn is what I remember, and the chill of a morning not yet lit with logic. For you, I grip my mug a little tighter.
You are the pavement, sometimes. Before I remember to forget, I step over each crack, and force my feet to land once in each square. My longest strides are for you.
You are the night, sometimes. A shower of light blurs anew, and the blur is swirling and I am smiling inside-out just like you did and would have loved these stars and their city and our grey-golden sidewalk for this moment alone. I am enjoying it for you.
You are the song, sometimes. I hear you more in its plucks than strums, which made you cry and you may even have tied a piece of your soul to it – I think you did, because the chords swell and my cheeks (and chin, and shirt) are wet. I don’t know this feeling, except that you are in it.
You are the road, sometimes. And we two are cruising and one of us rolls down a window and you are a blast of breeze and my eyes are not looking at traffic but at license plates and the roughness of asphalt as it melts into pinstripes, and appreciating the way cars braid through lanes. I marvel at my absence of fear, as you would have.
You are the laughter, sometimes. And you are rumbling through someone else’s body, and mine, and I am surprised because this one is real and contorting and we are all so thankful that no one looks attractive and that it can’t be stopped. I didn’t know these still existed. It doesn’t last, but thank you for bringing it back.
You are a memory, sometimes. And I feel alone for the dreams you have left me without the confidence from which they sprang. Your coffee on my tongue, your pavement beneath my feet, your night in my arms, your song in my ear, your road stretched ahead, and your laughter in my belly – I remember you the way all memories appear.
I remember you by accident.
Sincerely,
Me (age 28)
