I’ve forgotten what it’s like to kiss you and that’s what surprises me the most. Because that was the one feeling I thought I’d never forget. The one memory I thought I would carry with me for the rest of my life. Because I’ve learned that when you love someone, you memorize them. You memorize the way their lips part before you kiss, the way their voice quivers when they’re nervous. You memorize the roughness of their voice and the tenderness of their touch. The curve of their body and the texture of their skin. You memorize every inch of them. And you tell yourself you’ll never forget. Which is why it’s always so surprising when you do. Even though you knew it would happen. Even though you tried so hard to make sure that it didn’t. And so I lay awake night after night trying to remember the pitch of your laugh and the way you held my hand. Trying my best to remember the last time I saw you, trying to hear your voice, and feel your hands, and smell you. But I can’t. And suddenly I regret all the times I never stopped to write down exactly what it felt like to love you. Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember. And I have to rewrite the way your hands fit into mine, because I can’t quite remember if they did. And I have to make up the look you gave me every time I made a terrible joke. Because not being able to remember what it feels like to know you terrifies me. And even when I’m pressed up against a man on the subway who smells like our promises, or I kiss someone who tastes like the life I think we shared, even if all the fragmented pieces came together perfectly, they would never be enough. I would still forget. But maybe that’s for the best. Maybe it’s my way of trying to heal. And if it is, maybe the only way to do so, is to find someone else to forget.