I used to preserve every moment with you.
Your face in pictures and journal entries and X’s on a map.
I wanted to ensure I’d never forget a single stolen glance.
Or whisper. Or crooked smile. Or wink.
When you weren’t around, I’d fish through the memories.
I’d hook on to the ones that made me smile.
I’d thank God for putting you in my life.
I’d say your name in hushed prayers, scribbled notes, friendly conversations.
Until you were gone.
Until we weren’t making new memories.
Until you started ruining the ones we had.
Until you wrote me off.
It wasn’t until then that I realized I had been imagining up a perfect image of you.
I always deleted the bad photos. Scratched out the awkward conversations.
I never marked the locations we went when you made me feel bad.
So when I looked back, I felt invincible with you. Immune to pain.
Now when I reminisce about what were once happy memories
I feel nothing.
I don’t feel invincible.
Or happy.
Or warm.
I don’t smile at the candid shots in which you looked so perfect.
I don’t laugh at the dumb jokes I insisted on writing down.
It took me quite awhile to get here.
But I don’t miss you anymore.
I don’t even miss the you I had created in my head.
I am ready to let go.
I am not performing some ceremonial burning.
I don’t feel that passionate about it anymore.
But know that next time, with the next person I truly invest in
I will let the good meet the bad.
I’ll keep the shitty pictures.
And I will let myself record the truth.
Instead of the dream.
