My bed will remember you even if I don’t.
It will remember our feet between the sheets. The way you looked at me, with gentle eyes, filled with child-like wonder over the form of my body and it will recall the deepest form of intimacy we shared. When we were young and in lust but we fooled ourselves into thinking that it was more; that we, as individuals, were better than the reality of our messiness. It was a good story we kept telling ourselves. “Someone else can make you happy even if you are not happy with yourself,” we said over and over again. We believed that lie for years until we were left with everything but happiness.
My bed will remember when we were selfless in our romantic exchange and the day that changed. The day I was no longer someone special, but a vessel to satisfy your “needs,” as if I did not have any needs myself (we defined “needs” as two different things, it seems.) It will remember when we thought we were filling empty holes with each other only to find that we were creating them by being together.
My bed will remember the days where our hands turned into fists of frustration, instead of an offering of affection. When late nights turned into a chore instead of a choice. And though we are not together anymore, my bed will remember your scent; my mattress reeks of your memory. Do not misunderstand me, it is not that I do not want to remember you or that it was all bad. It wasn’t. Because of all the memories you left, it would be easier to be angry with you instead of looking at what I needed to change. And not that I needed you to, but you taught me I needed to improve; not for anyone else but for myself. And that is the best memory you have ever given me.