Stirling and Hepburn
I jotted down a message to myself in my phone: “Write a poem about watches and bicycles and poetry.”
Is that all he really left me with?
It isn’t. He gave me the passion to write again. He reminded me of the feeling of skin on skin on skin on skin. He showed me how timing can be a bitch.
He left me loving him after I had spoke the phrase, “You don’t love me and I don’t love you.” so many times.
He was more than watches and cats and old movies and bikes and his father who loves me and his sister who hates me and music and poetry and writing.
He is a beautiful whirlwind of memories.
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