I don’t remember what color his car was, or what model he drove. The lines of his face are a delicate memory – likely, at any moment, to break or become blurry or simply just fade away. My mind can never recreate the sound of his voice saying my name, although it’s tried. Oh, it’s tried.

He wrote me a song once, or a poem maybe. And although the chords of music and lines of verse have fallen away from my memory, the theme of it resonates through my soul like the vibrating string of a guitar.

Was it love?

It was love.

If I close my eyes, I can feel him move around me like an aura – as though, wherever he is, he is trying to remember me too. I don’t dare open my eyes for fear the vision – the only vestige of him I have left – may fade away and never return to haunt me.

I can’t find the photographs.

But, if I close my eyes, and reach out my hand, I can almost imagine that somehow, somewhere, his memory is reaching back as well, attempting to detain me in its eternal grip.