The science of remembering me

You stand in front of me. Face of remorse. After all the missed calls and voicemails you tell me, “I’m trying to forget”.

I laugh.

Because I know you will remember me. You will remember me. You’ll remember my hands and the way my fingers were always painted blue. You’ll remember the blankets spread on the beach. You’ll remember the night in the library and the “shhhh” coming at us from every other table in the room. You’ll remember how you drove all night just to meet me in the morning and when I crawled into bed to wake you up you said, “This is why I’ve waited so long to die”.

You’ll remember my hair and the way I’m the only brunette you’ve ever kissed.

You’ll remember how we were the hot embers of love. And we were the reason behind all the flames of every burning building in town. You’ll breathe in the ashes and remember, “that’s her alright”, and you’ll put your hand over the warm flames and remember me.

But I’m not the redemption of the engulfing flames, or the soft kitten skin. I’m the instinct that makes you remember how to run and fight with your bare fists.

You’re alone in your car and you’ll remember me. Not because of the absence of blood and skin in the seat next to you, but because I am the radio and the sirens behind you. I am the XM station that plays all the songs you pretend to hate. Though you love them because my eyes are the verses and my lips the chorus. I’m the song you hum which you realize you are humming only when you catch someone listening.

 

You try turning to the Bible. But when searching for truth you’re too busy fretting about Judas, “Don’t trust him, Savior!” Because when we kissed, I was Judas. And you were the blood of the lamb.

You’ll remember me tangled up in your sheets and the static of electricity as my toes brushed the tops of your ankles.

You’ll remember I made you feel like running over your cat with a truck and also like getting hit by a truck.

You’ll remember my eyes – fifty attack-dogs on a single leash.

You’ll remember me in the unlikeliest of galaxies. In grocery lines. In the blisters on your feet.

May God bless whoever is remembering me the same way.

You’ll remember the rain dance and the camping trip and the lighting doing wonders for my curves and I know, I know you’ll remember me.