June 7

Today I remember you. The way you used to be. The way you have not been for a very very long time.
Today I remember you. The way you think I was a goddess for my imperfect ways.
Today I remember how the way I spoke my pathetic French, or how I ate like a baby, or how I pretended to love Voltaire, made you adore me that much more. Like cotton candy. Or strawberry and cheese puff pastries.
Today I remember me leaving you. Breaking you. So that you thought about how I used to laugh and you cried. How I froze and you lit a match. Our match.
Today I remember me trying to come back in, under your skin. And finding that you were no longer there.
So today I remember you for the last time, the way you used to be to me and for me, and I think, for the world. Or at least mine. Or at least ours, the one that would matter to me, when it came to you. In it. The way you have not been for a very very long time.
I never liked good-byes. But I guess this would be one.