Sometimes I think, a huge part of being with someone, with staying with someone, is knowing why.
As opposed to just staying put for the sake of staying put, that is. But having said that, I think I've got this awful habit of asking myself far too many questions and second-guessing myself a bit more than I should. I'm all unfinished thoughts and half sentences When really, All I mean to say is That I think she's beautiful
I like that I write. It helps me remember. But sometimes, even with writing, I forget. Maybe one's brain blocks things out to keep you safe.. But then there's that thing where- even if you don't remember, your subconscious does and your body most certainly does. The way I sometimes flinch at something you say, or recoil at a certain touch; it's not you- It's some part of me reacting to something similar that's happened before or something. There are some things that have happened that we don't remember, but that's locked away in our bodies instead. There are some things I don't remember. And i remember only when I pour through page after page after tear-stained page of old writings. It is then that I begin to see and trace back and understand myself a little better. And I am grateful I wrote when I did. And then there is you, now. Babe, I want to remember. My god, I do. The way we picked out faucets for a home we didn't have and chose cars based on the number of kids who weren't yet on the way. The way we'd fall asleep on grass in the middle of the day, or polish off a bottle of wine with our roast chicken. The way you taught me the sound of a smile and the finding of calm in the evenness of someone's breathing. There are so many things that feel like they've just happened yesterday... So many things that feel like we're still in that unrooted, hazy, dreamy state we first started out in. And that's what's extra exciting. I want to remember- You and us and all the things I've felt when I'm with you. And if I start to forget... If the humdrum of our lives get to us, and our workaholism gets the better of us to the point missing each other becomes a familiar dull throb somewhere inside that we stop paying attention to, That I, stop paying attention to- Help me remember then, won't you? Because there might come things I'll grow tired of feeling, things we bring up wearily because we've gone over them before and it's not getting better. There are aches we might get used to and an absence we might learn to live with albeit with spoonfuls of resentment to taste. But I am always going to want to remember everything that came before. Promise I am. So please, Say you won't let me forget?