I kept looking back.
Back at the photos of us.
Trying to remember my hands on your face.
The softness of your lips on mine.
I'm thinking about the shape of your eyes.
Wondering when the last time I saw that spark in them was.
Questioning if you remember the depth of my dimples.
The curvature of my waist within your grip.
But if I'm being honest.
I'm just trying to remember feeling connected.
Before we illuminated the wounds of our past.
Before life put our flaws at the forefront.
I'm trying to remember us.
But for some reason, it's this distant memory.
Like a love story I once heard, but stopped listening to when it turned south.
And I keep thinking.
If you showed up at my doorstep.
I would want your hand to cradle my cheek .
I would want to feel your touch.
To remember this was once real.
To prove what we had was once beautiful.
About the Creator
Rocco
“As if my brain subconsciously knows that the value of offering or thinking just as everyone else is equivalent to no value whatsoever.” The Writer
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.