Writers don’t forget.
I may forget where I put my keys, or the last place I put down my pen. But I remember the important details.
Like the shape of your mouth when you’re whistling that familiar tune I never knew the name of.
I remember the car in your dream was red, crimson in my mind, and you’ve already told me the story three times, but I won’t stop you from telling it again. I remember the smell of your skin in the middle of the night, and the flash of your teeth when your voice rises in anger.
I remember the soft fuzz on the back of your neck where I kiss you, and the prickle of the hair growing back over your tattoo.
I remember your mother’s birthday, and your daughter’s too, and the pride you have in your voice when you speak of them.
The things you like, the people you love, they are important to me and hold a place in my heart, because I remember what love sounds like when you speak.
I don’t care much about the things you’ve forgotten. Nor do I expect you to forget the women that came before me. I hope you don’t.
Because, for every time you had your heart broken, a little more room was left for my light to shine in cracks.
As the sunlight leaks in through a dusty window pane, I’ll pour my ink into you, molten, warming, and give you the largest piece of me so that you know.
And you won’t forget me.