i saw your old mug at the thrift store. the one with the chip in the handle that you used to press against your thumb. the cashier asked if i wanted it, but i said, “no, thank you,” like it wasn’t the most intimate thing i’d touched in years.
your sister told me you hated coffee, that you only drank it because you thought it made you seem older, like adding cream could smooth out the rough edges you didn’t want anyone to see.
half the things i remember about you aren’t even true anymore. but that doesn’t stop me from building a version of you out of the shards i still have: a habit, a laugh, the way you said my name like it was a prayer you didn’t believe in.
in this story, we are driving west. the windows are down, and the highway stretches forever. you’re singing a song you swore you hated, and i’m pretending not to know the words.
i choose remembering over the truth, and half the time it doesn’t make sense, but i don’t care. i have you loving the sunrise instead of dreading it. i have you loving yourself like i never could.
i have you loving.
Comments