I Remember

What days do I remember?

The days that I remember are few.

The goodness in the glass it goes so fast, swirling in your hand, your eyes look away for a moment. Sweeten the juice for me please.

Sweeten it with sugar.

I remember.

I remember being born, of looking into the world for the first, wanting to understand.

I remember days of warm tears, of unrestrained sobbing, the taste of salty water. I remember alone.

I remember my heart jumping out of my chest, forgetting to pump the blood when I felt sadness, or joy, or even love.

I remember seeing that no one else's heart did the same thing, and learning how to hide the happiness.

I remember homework, long shadows in the house, when raw November took the afternoon dark. I remember the smell of stew cooking on the stovetop.

I remember waking up cold from a nap, my mind disoriented, my body in shiver as I searched for a sweater.

I remember the fear for my parents, giants with power if not reason. I remember being two foot tall.

I remember the icy bite of Winter days, inside the house while the men watched football. I remember the sound of the whistle in the stadium frozen.

I remember seeing a beautiful woman's face and knowing love. Everything about it.

I remember days of not caring, of car rides and letter grades, of taking my first step to live music. I remember drive-thru windows.

I remember the days of liquid love, of bodies in tangle, losing my limbs in hers. I remember the speed of the pulse when someone was listening.

I remember the promise of a baseball game before the first pitch is thrown. I remember hope. I remember listening for the score.

I remember seeing her standing there, all the answers in a blink of her eye. I remember I couldn't speak.

I remember Summer days, when the sun refused to leave the sky, the ache inside me pull hard as the clouds soaked up the leaking color. I remember the sweet pinks, the savage blues, and the blood orange.

I remember standing outside, looking in. Waiting in a line that never moved.

I remember watching her walk away from me. I remember the new pain.

I remember riding the train, at night, all night, every night, wondering if the other passengers knew how all alone I felt. I remember black outside the windows, in my head and in my heart, holding back the moans as my soul bled slow.

I remember praying for daylight.

I remember that hot Summer day, in the park, when I was five. I remember the taste. I remember the hyperlife and absolute perfection, the sponge mind of a child in a brilliant moment, the green grass growing before my eyes, reaching up and out to touch the sunshine. I remember my mother and father in the distance while I stepped outside of reality, this dimension, into the real world so beautiful most human beings never get a look. I remember being the architect of the universe, creating, engaging, documenting every detail of that moment for reference in the life of pain I knew was to come.

I remember thinking 'it will never get any better than this.' I remember that moment has sustained me.

I don't remember much. I remember these things.

Oh.

And you.

I remember you.

Everything about you.

I remember every single beautiful, impossible, magical, loving, sublime thing about you.

I remember you.

And I always will.

I will always remember you.