Almost Every Last Memory of You

I can still remember that blank stare
and how I made you sheepishly smile
when you asked me if you could take a photograph of me

I can still remember those stiff shoulders
and how I turned them into my cradle
when we sat on the beach, trying to ignore those silly romantic stars hovering above us

I can still remember those cold hands
and how I made it alive
when you obsessively liked my photos one by one, even when we were just inches apart

I can still remember that almost-permanent smirk
and how I made you giggle like a child
when you begged me to stop tickling you

I can still remember the monotony on your voice
and how I made it erupt with delight
when I showed you my fear of cats, and my thumbs’ weird flexibility

I can still remember those chilly feet
and how I made it bounce to the beat
when we danced to a serendipitous song playing over the radio

I can still remember that detached heart
and how I made it overflowing with comfort
whenever you sent me random images that you said reminded you of me.

I can still remember that awkward silence
and how it was broken with an echoing taste
when we curled up while it was raining outside

I can still remember how you taught me
that remembering will always be deceiving
that I should clothe happy thoughts with shadows
that I should erase our past with pixelated blurs
that I should replace everything with nothing
until I can no longer picture any part, any feeling, or any piece of you.

I did.
But you need to know that I am all too familiar:
those sad eyes,
those pursed lips,
that blank stare,
those stiff shoulders,
those cold hands,
that almost-permanent smirk,
that monotonous voice,
those chilly feet,
that detached heart,
that awkward silence.

I have killed almost every memory of you,
save for your reflection.