I remember every detail. The first day at the coffee shop. The first night in the snow. The snow angel I made which looked like a hooded KKK member — the one we so affectionately called the KKK Angel. I was 15. You were 13.
I remember how hard it was to get to you. You were only at your dad’s house every 2 weeks for a weekend. My parents installed an alarm system. . .not to keep others out, but to keep me in. I remember spending an hour ripping apart an old harddrive for its magnet, so I could trick the alarm system into thinking the window was still shut. Crawling out the window. Freezing as we walked through subzero temperatures. Snow, wind, no coats or hoodies. Miles through blizzards. Sometimes just to hug at the halfway point for 15 minutes, and then part for 2 more weeks.
I still remember your scent. Gucci Rush. Every time I smell it, you come flooding back. It makes me crazy. I’m still addicted to you. You made sure I always would be. You would spray my pillows with your scent. Go running and “forget” your shirt at my house. And even after we decided the two week breaks were too painful, that our love wasn’t worth the hurt, you would make sure I couldn’t forget you. You still write suggestive things to me from time to time. You put Rush on the letters so I smell you. You don’t want me to forget.
Lovers later, fiances later, and I still miss you. And you miss me too. You drown yourself in alcohol. I suffocated myself in opiates for 2 years. But heroin isn’t as good as the real thing. And neither is alcohol. You still miss me when you’re drunk, I still miss you when I’m high.
Are we going to die this way? Me longing for Gucci Rush because it is better than a heroin rush, and you hung over with tears?
Why did we always have to be Romeo and Juliet? Why would you only see me at night? Was I just your means of transcending the mundane?
I still think about you.
Miss you.
Want you.
Love you.
Need you.
I still remember.
