i remember.

i remember the first moment i saw him. the first flicker of a smile as he brushed past.

i remember the night we sat on opposite ends of the couch as the world ended. and the secret that gave way to sadness.

i don't remember him saying it might all work out. i've read that now, all these many years later, but i don't remember it.

i remember the day he said i'd find my own ella fitzgerald. i'd like to tell him now that i have--in the sounds of the pacific northwest and britsh folk movement.

and i remember the night he passed over my favorite book. wrote it off. and how i missed that clue.

i remember baseball caps and tennis shoes. living room floors and promises left there. single keys passing hands. and single booths at late-night diners.

i don't remember how much was missed--how many pointed glances were not taken in, how many tilts of the head went unnoticed. how often we spoke past the person, our words left hanging around our ankles.

i remember 125th street and an opened book quickly closed again.

but for the life of me i can't remember how my mouth felt as it wrapped itself around his name.