I Remember

I remember the way your eyelids got heavy when you became really sleepy, the way your long eyelashes fluttered like a butterfly flying to a light.

And the funny face you made when I shook you awake—the smile that said “Okay, I’m awake now—” even though you didn’t open your eyes.

And the way your disappointment in the name of a beard would tickle my shoulder when you rested your head on me.

I remember whenever you did that it felt like my shoulder was a puzzle missing a single piece, and your head fit so perfectly that the puzzle would’ve came to life.

And the way you tried to shave before seeing me. One time you cut your chin in a hurry because we were running late—there was a little red blemish on your clean and unblemished face.

I remember you, my very own fireplace for cold nights, the way you hugged me the day before you had to go—so tight that I felt like you would crush me, but so careful that I felt as if you could protect me from any danger in the world.

I remember how you frowned when I cried, with a deep concern on your face; the way you watched my car until it turned the corner of the street

And the truth and innocence in your big, brown eyes as you held my pinky in a promise to not forget about me after going away.