I remember you in the fall

I swore to myself I’d forget you.

It’s been nearly a decade, after all.

But even now, your dirty blond hair and hazel eyes are clear in my mind.

Your presence was a deep, forest green, as comforting as that faded black sweater you always wore.

Green didn’t used to be my favorite color.

Sometimes I see you in strangers.

The same nose. Or chin. Eyebrows. Pearly white smile. That damn smirk.

And I freeze for a moment, my heart stuttering until I get a second look and confirm that it’s not you.

I’m disappointed it’s not you.

I glance outside the large office windows. It’s that purple time of day and at least three other people remark about the transition from amethyst to ochre. We all stop and stare.

Somehow, I’m reminded of you.

Even though we’re half a world apart and haven’t talked in years.

It’s only a moment, then back to work.

I still think of you in those moments between wake and sleep.

I stare at the gray and black and pinpricks of ever color in my dark room. Sometimes, like tonight, I feel a bit blue as I listen to the rain drops. My throat tightens and my chest feels heavy. My stomach is in knots.

I’m not sure why.

It’s not like we kissed in the rain or anything.

Most of the time I’ve gotten over you. But the taste of black coffee, a whiff of a spicy cologne, and the biting chill of fall bring back memories of you.

I’ll probably miss you harder in November, when my steps crunch the burnt orange leaves on the ground.

I wish I could forget you.