All men kill the thing they love-- Oscar Wilde

do you remember the times? in the river kissing, sitting on a drum in the back room, in the bathroom at the bar, around the corner as the brick watched us fade and collide. memories run like clips from old movies. 

the scene when I pulled in at the farm and you were in the field with my father, I walked through the tall grass in that red dress, and something inside of you melted. or the clip of us there in the pool over fourth of july weekend, with my feet in the water I sat top-less on the side, my wet hair sticking to my shoulders, exhaling smoke with a smile as you stood in the water between my legs.

wild and unpredictable, like that weekend we went to van. when we got lost in seattle and got found at the needle. the clip is only fifteen seconds, we're at the top drunk and smoking, pointing at the city like a map of where we were going next. remembering you watch me as I danced at the gay bar in capitol hill, you sat against the wall and smiled. then when you took my hand, we were leaving, smoking, calling the cab... fast forward as our driver takes us to the marina, stripping down and laughing, I watch you escape naked, into the puget sound. 

hungover and unmotivated we were back on the road. images. dressing in the van with the windows down. pulling me towards you to kiss at 70 miles an hour. my feet out the window, my cigarettes on the dash, the sun seducing my skin, and from behind my sunglasses I watched you sing. 

or the clip in the parking garage on my 22nd birthday, an hour late, a little high, and a drunk kiss against the cement as drunk wanderers walked by and whistled.

that's what my past is, moving images of time. I wish there was sound, I wish they kept their smell, I wish they didn't keep losing color.  I can't help but try to touch them, the images of your hands in my hair, your freckled wet skin in the water, the hair on your chest under my fingers in the hot mornings as my lips mapped a road between your stomach and the pulse on your neck.

the images.

did I make it that easy to walk right in and out of my life?

you killed the thing you love. the girl with her hair in a mess with her head on your chest, the barefoot girl with a summer smile, with no makeup on swimming in the wild, the girl who could make you laugh when she didn't know she was being funny, the girl who was there when everyone else failed.

the girl is still barefoot, dancing in her red dress. 

you killed the memories, you didn't kill me.