Little Things I Remember

I remember watching him sleep,

his eyes fleeting back and forth under their lids.

I remember him drawing long breaths,

and his heartbeat wavering in his chest.

I took the chance to hold my breath because I thought that time would stop—

that the moment would freeze and I would be captured there, in his arms, forever.

I wanted so much to love him slowly:

take him in moments at a time,

savor the roughness of his kiss and the taste it left on my lips,

feel his cheek and the way it tickled my fingertips and scratched them at the same time,

to take a deep breath so that his scent would be embedded deep in my lungs.

Even now, I can feel him when I lay awake at night,

but it hurts like a song stuck in my head

and the wind through tiny holes in my clothes.

I can’t see it, but I know its there.

I’m not afraid to lose him; he is already gone.

I’m only afraid to forget all the precious moments between

glances,

blankets,

and rain.

But I'm mostly afraid he already has.