September 17th

If you were to place all the words I could use to describe you on a line, it'd go to the farthest corners of the earth and somehow find its way back. There is nothing I want more than to describe you perfectly; to record the mornings of crisp white sheets and steaming black coffees, flawlessly. To have our memories leap off pages and play in others' heads, as though they were there themselves. To be remembered as a we, an us. I dream of our names rolling off of people's tongues, yearning to have a tale as remarkable as ours. I wish I had the words to recount the feeling I get when I look at you, or the thoughts that run through your head when you're with me. 
Your story never was mine to tell.

To be honest, all I really want to hear is that you think of me once in a while. That you see my eyes when the moon is full, or hear my voice when you're trying to sleep, or feel my fingertips tracing your back when in reality it's just the tickle of your sheets. I just need to know whether you see my face in the blank pages of your notebooks, or on walls with chipping green paint, in your coffee mugs. 
Do you smile when you hear my name tossed around in other people's conversations? Are you disappointed when you see my doppelgänger in those crowded city streets, when you realize that it isn't me? 
Will you forget me like all the rest? Or am I the memory that your mind refuses to leave behind?