It’s funny. You still come up from time to time, and every once in awhile, I dream a little dream that you are still here. I wake up a bit sad every time.
I’m starting to forget it all, and there’s no doubt in my mind that we would be perfect strangers to each other now, as even a short amount of time can change someone. Those engaging, enthralling talks would be no more, and my heart would race only to see you, a bittersweet reminder of your disdain for my very being, and then pass on. To me, it is sad.
So, instead of returning the long-ago expressed hatred you had shared with me after all was said and done, I will say this.
I still remember you grasping onto my arm. I pretended that the car door being locked was enough to stall me, and instead of simply unlocking the door, I slowly turned to you, and you stared, nearly crazy eyed through the yellow light that cut the night, and I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and waited. Your kiss left me trembling, and I never told you that.
And that is how I choose to remember you. I don’t care if you hate me now. You don’t even know me, and I know nothing of you.
But, I am left wondering, how it is, after everything, that you are still my muse?