you remember some moments more vividly than others:
you don’t remember anything about your first kiss or how happy it made you feel, but you do remember that it wasn’t sexy or hot or cute, and that it pressed itself on your lips so hard all you could taste was blood after.
you don’t remember how you ended up in the hospital, but you woke up with only a doctor asking you to repeat your answers because you kept losing consciousness. you remember the streetlights and the hiding half-moon between the clouds and how you thought it looked like the face of a frightened child and how you never looked at where your feet were going as you ran.
you don’t remember how he broke your heart, or how you even found your way back to your house when he was gone, but you remember how you turned your bed into a coffin and how you lay there for months hoping he’d walk right back in, and you always kept the door unlocked.
you don’t remember how he found his way back into your life again, but you remember how your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck without you asking and how you held him so close you thought you had the same skin, and you never wanted to let him go again.
but you did.