agalma.

the last night i saw you was a fog. it wasn't your last night in nyc, and so part of me hoped i'd see you one last time. silly, i know. as emotionally spent as i was, i had a sliver of hope that maybe i meant more to you than you led on. but summer was over and so you packed up your things and left the city. aside from the occasional text message, you basically walked out of my life. again. before you left, i thought about giving you something to remember me by; a book, a card. something. by why give you more emotional, long-winded words that you'll only half-read? at the very least, before you left i should have kissed you long and hard to make sure you felt everything i have ever felt; the urgency, the want, the fullness of the moon, the stars we could have made love under, the time we did not have, the way i would have loved to watch you grow, the man i imagined you becoming. the man you're already becoming. i wanted to give you everything every woman never has. but i knew you were fine with just leaving. you didn't want me to leave any traces, you didn't want anything you could bring back with you, an art piece or a little trinket you could look at from time to time and remember me. and yet, i still have the drunken ramblings you'd written to me once on a typewriter, and i never deleted that photo from my senior year, the only photo ever taken of us.  for some reason, i still hold onto whatever scraps i have.