Rememberance is the best trick man has.

I just want to be able to remember again.
I’ve played the tapes in my memory way too many times.
I want to remember, but I don’t quite know now.
Faint memories of lips touching; the barest traces of your fingertips to my hip.
The way your eyes gleamed and twinkled in the soft light of a cheap gas station lighter’s flame when all else around us was darkness.
I want to hate every last memory. And I do this with a sort of frantic desparation. I don’t know why I choose to hate them. It feels better than getting hung up on every last second of every last memory of us together.
It feels a lot better to quit.
This makes me wonder. Are you thinking of me? Are you, somewhere, somehow, reading all I have to say to you? My feelings strewn awbout on frogotten pages written in messy cursive?
Are you thinking of me?