I never finished the book I gave you as a goodbye present.
I am not terribly good at finishing everything I start, but when I finish something; I finish it well. Forever. And I never look back. I'm remarkably good at forgetting. I've had to be.
Books aren't like that though. Words aren't like that. Words are meant to be prolonged in your life and hold a space somewhere in your heart. Books are meant to teach you stuff, change you, and live in you until you die. Words are supposed to be alive forever. The idea scares me a bit, to be honest. Anything that feels permanent scares me a bit. Or a lot. "Forever" is a big word. A lifetime is a long time.
I've read too many books, but I seriously think my brain has done everything it could to forget about them; to remember only what was important - whatever seemed transcendental and nothing more. It's worked. I've stored the fun facts, the things that sound interesting and I've tossed away the rest.
I've done the same with almost everything - Social predispositions, religion, school lessons, people. Especially people. It's been tiring, this thing of living while trying to forget all the time.
I remember a thing or two about the book I gave you. I know it speaks about solitude, which seemed timely in March when you left, and the world was shut down in such a unique way. I know it speaks about solitude, which seems adequate now that you're not here.
I will probably forget a lot of things but I know exactly the things I will remember about you.
I know I will remember the careful attention you paid to every word I spoke, even if I was talking about nothing much. I will remember the fascination with which you wanted to examine every single one of my thoughts.
The melody of your laughter; always playful and careless. I will remember how the heat made your pale cheeks fluster in all shades of red and pink, and every single one of your brown freckles.
Your overconfident signature walk.
How we laughed for hours at things that other people couldn’t understand. Our beer dates and how you always said yes to me, no matter what I asked for.
I will also forever remember the astonished look on your face the first time I sang for you, randomly, after a night of drinks while waiting for the elevator to go home. I know I will remember you.
You're a memorable person, X.
I want to willingly hold on tight to as many things as I can from the times we shared so that I don't forget you. So my brain doesn't dispose you along with all the other people I've known during this time of my life.
I know I never said it and I especially never acted like it - but you were important. I cared.
That's why I've written about you. So there are words written about you, so you're immortal. So I can keep you forever.