He whispers for me,

from the echoes, this voice that wishes to be free.

Such a sweet melody, a song I think I have heard before,

somewhere lost in the cotton memories of the forgotten child.

A warmth crawls up my skin, to an end where memory begins.

Into the spaces between the dreams, the system behind this scene of still faces; still places.

A face among the words only lovers share on faded mornings, with faint murmurs of the flesh, a face this shrouded eye longs to see.

What is this echo?

What is this dream?

Why does he call for me?

Is it just foreplay to say no?

Or is this the path from 6 to Seven…..

I remember us,

The way your breath fell so gently as you slept, that calming rhythm when you spoke to me.

I remember us.

Your weariness, working two jobs that you knew would go nowhere, but you worked them anyway.

I could hear the echo of your exhaustion but slept to the sound of your determination.

I remember us.

Those early shifts,

your boss who flirtatiously complimented your hair; uninvited.

But we always enjoyed the smell of the fresh hashbrowns off the griddle;

at least on the days the cook didn’t burn them.

I remember us.

That late shift, how you hated that job.

But we always had the best talks on the bus ride home,

When we were too tired to care if anyone was listenings.

I remember us.

And the one whose name you never said,

but I could tell by the way your heart fluttered that you still loved him,

even though you couldn’t convince him to stay.

I remember us

And the sound of that ballpoint pen rolling its declaration across the paper, in that stuffy office. The one that smelled of burnt coffee and copy toner.

The day you decided to give me what you knew you never could.

The day your heart slowed to a steady rhythm and stopped skipping beats.

I remember us.

And the sharp, chlorine wave that filled my nose as I entered the room with buzzing yellow lights; it was so cold.

The way your voice moved from vibration to reverberation.

And the hands that took me away and changed the “Us” to an “I”.

I remember us

Our tapestry unwoven yet with newfound hands to weave a new story.

Always remember, that when the blades come to dissect every nuance of your choice

If I never find you, tell them the story of us.

I still love hashbrowns.

I remember us, I remember we and I remember you.

And there is nothing to be sorry about.