'I remember when you used to be mine'
''
Holding a steaming cup of coffee, you walk across the road to your old, dilapidated apartment building. You climb the four flights of stairs you've grown accustomed to (the elevator was never fixed) and unlock your door.
You let out a wistful half-smile as you hang your key on the hook beside the door. The key is an old, brass one, reminding you of old-fashioned murder mysteries (and film noir, yet you never quite understood that one). In fact, your entire apartment looked like it could be a setting of a murder mystery or old horror film, and you loved it. You know you're getting to be too much like her, but you can't help it; or you don't want to.
Placing the paper cup on the countertop, you unbutton your tan coat and huge, white knitted scarf, hanging them over one of the bar stools. You walk across the room and open the blinds and the room is engulfed in that winter sunlight you've always just loved. You look around the room, like you find yourself doing a lot more often nowadays. Your bed is unmade. You feel another one of those half-smiles pushing its way onto your face as you remember.
The feel of skin on skin as you laid together under the sheets; the paper lanterns you were forced to take down after it all just got too hard to try to forget. The way she smiled - it was rare; it was absolutely beautiful. Cuddling on the old couch under layers of mexican blankets. The sweet fragrance of coffee and spices she always held; and the ambrosial taste of her lips and her neck and everywhere else. How you'd sit for hours, the contrast of your slim, coffee-colored frame held tightly; safely, in the strong arms of the soft, pale beauty.
She left without saying goodbye.
It's been a year, and December has passed again. It went quickly, you muse, despite the memories of the cold winter nights and dark, early mornings she'd spent up here with you, and despite the empty hollowness in your chest you figure will probably never go away. There's hardly anything that doesn't remind you of her; and so many of her habits have rubbed off on you. She was your everything. It's too hard to forget, and that pains you, but you don't regret a single moment. You can't.
She was troubled, and dark, but her passion was what drew you to her. And it lasted, it lasted a long while, but it wasn't meant to be.
At least that's what you tell yourself. Because despite the sadness, she brought with her some of the best months of your life.
And you keep remembering; and you know you should forget, but it's hard.
And maybe you don't want to.