time travel

Sometimes I think: no more.
No more writing about the after-rain and the melancholy of beautiful days without you and how time passes and you leave.
No more thinking about the past and wishing I were there.

It's 11:49pm on May 19. Exactly two years ago I was somewhere between that legendary last dance of the senior prom and Maddie's living room falling asleep playing apples to apples. A lot of things from back then are broken, but not everything. And I healed from that. Or did I? Haven't I been a little bit lost ever since that glorious time ended?

You looked to me like a kind of renaissance in the form of a college guy who likes to have a good time. I don't have enough just plain good times. But the good times mean everything to me. However, not your good times.

I save dates on the calendar, pictures, fliers, ticket stubs, flowers. I remember when. I hold so tightly on to memories. I take the sound made by rustling taffeta and the blinding light of camera flashes and the pulse of music and put them all in a box. And running down white hallways and falling asleep with friends all around into another box. October and sidewalk magic and art-fair glances over the statuary goes into a newer one.

Seaside kisses and delirious spring aren't boxed up yet, they're lying around in plain view and I sit there staring at them.

A big part of my life is made up of my vivid memory. Recalling exactly how things looked and felt right then. I love it. It's almost like time travel except it really, really hurts when you can't actually ever go back.

I need something that will make me want the future more than the past.