Time has passed. Enough time for my sclerae to part with the red cobwebs that used to greet my reflection good morning with every mirror encounter. Enough for them to resist the glossy veil of salty blur every time Smoke Break shuffles into the let’s-try-be-okay mindset I've been working on so hard. Deceitfully, shrewd in a covert of white cotton sheet enveloping us between getting blazed and listening to the mixtape for the hundredth time. Enough for my memory to start losing the sharpness of your image, the relief of your collarbone my fingers traced over and over, discovering a new nook or bump with every trembling expedition over your skin.
Still, some moments I do remember bright and clear. Clear like the Saturday afternoon when sun made war on two pairs of sleepy eyes. Sitting down to eat 2 p.m. breakfast, you kissing my hand amongst people; reflection of an instant of my momentary happiness in your sunglasses, one of a myriad since I learned you liked me. Walking down the alley, rays illuminating your hair, transforming the smoke you blew into a fluff of sparkling milky wonder; a metamorphosis of your breath and warmth. Lying on a mattress, queasy after a night of drinking, you helping me out of my dress and saying I looked like a painting, one that hasn’t been put on canvas yet; the contraction of my cheeks into a contented, intoxicated smile. I hate my memory for its weakness to hold everything inside, the sparse moments of infinite joy, and I hate you for the way we are now for there is no way we are, and in that hate: a perplexity.
Scoring through the ravel and reaching its bottom: no anger or regret. In the weak moments, my insides may be a lamentable pile of shards and shreds, but still, I’d never take back a single second. You said you wouldn’t either; a comforting image, strangely enough. To wish you’d see us through my eyes is selfish and selfish I am. Mature? Pretending to be. Rather stubborn and unwilling to put myself down. The ultimate compromise I made with myself. As you once told me: sometimes it’s best to say no to what may seem perfect. It probably is. At least for the future sake of my sanity. One of those shards is sharper than the rest: the certainty that I'd found something to stick with in all good conscience and with having to make no compromises about the person I adored. None but that ultimate one.