To not let go is to memorize a particular moment to the point of madness.
It’s to bask in the warmth of that one Sunday morning, the way the sun broke through the blinds and fell across their unmade bed. It’s the moment before you fall asleep, as you relay their voice in your head; just to make sure you still can, just to make sure you don’t forget the crack in ‘Hello,’ the rise and fall of ‘Goodbye.’ It’s folding up that first, hand-written note and slipping it into your breast pocket — not necessarily to read, but simply to know it’s there.
Not letting go is knowing the exact placement of that freckle, the one on the knuckle of their middle finger; it’s noticing the way they’d bite their lip after saying, “Yeah” – the way the sand always clung to the curve of their neck. It’s the…
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