I don’t remember lovers much. Their faces fade and I have to strain to recall the shape of lips or the trace of fingertips. I forget.

I remember that he bought new sheets and a bed spread. I remember being pinned against the cloth, the feel of it against my cheek as I turned my head.

His breath on my neck like the smoke from his cigarette, trailing softly, temporary.

Haunted.

Like his dark eyes staring into the distance or an off-guard smile.

We fall in love with snapshots.

We forget that the sleep was never restful.

That we carried knots in our back for days

and bruises on the inside of our lids.

The Maccabees – Can You Give It

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5 thoughts on “”

  1. The snapshots we remember and the freeze-frames we forget make up the photo album of every relationship, blank pages and all.

    I think, though, that you said it much more eloquently and beautifully.

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