Two Plane Tickets

I've tried to forget and thought I was still getting better in spite of you. But I only feel like I'm going back to what I was or rather who I was.

That old version of me from before we met.

You told me we were done in October but it's February now. The month that we met. Three days from now and it would've been a year. Which is suprising because I felt as though you knew me for a lifetime. You saw all my flaws, all my scars. My all highs and lows. And I saw yours, or at least I thought I did. I still remember the things you love. The way you smiled at me when you would catch me staring at you. The way you laughed at my jokes or how your cat, our son, would run if you caught him laying with me while you were away. How you always wanted one of my hoodies. Or the way you held me when you found out my mom was sick and dying because I kept having to rework our plans. I even remember our last day together. I was so mad at myself that day I took it out on you. I didn't hug you, didn't kiss you... And that day is my last memory with you.

So many memories of us still dance across my mind when all I want to do is forget. And yet, forgetting you would cause so much more pain than remembering you would.

I had never danced with someone before that night. Never wore a suit before it either. But I did for you.

Now that suit lays in a box. A box with the clay dinosaur I painted, our thumbprints on the bottom of the foot. The canvas painting you made me on our 6 month anniversary. The clothes I wore on our first date. The bracelets you made that you brought back from your childhood home in Jersey because I said I wanted them. The polaroid of us at the Guards game. The version of me that you fell in love with and I was so proud to be.

And lastly, two plane tickets and the ring I bought from Jared.

Because you promised me that you needed this as much as I did.