I remember the first time we held hands.
I was terrified, the words clogged up my throat; and you sat there with that amused little smile, watching me choke on my anxiety; waiting for the words to spill out.
Eventually, I typed it out on my phone and handed it to you.
“Do you want to hold hands?”
We blushed, and your fingers were soon nested warmly in the spaces between mine: It was then that I realized how cold I had been for the last twenty years.
My jaw popped, my upper lip quivered and tingled: and I realized how smiling so far had been a social response to demonstrate approval or politeness, and that I hadn’t actually felt happy in years.
I remember how sweet it used to be before it all went sour.
I remember the rain against our faces, the breeze in your hair, the smell of your ears and your innermost fears.
I remember my skin against yours, I remember your lips against mine.
But most importantly, I remember how easily you forgot.
And eventually, that is all that I will remember.