it’s not a problem

Do you remember my birthday?

Does the date trip a wire in your memory? Does it nag you, do you wonder ‘what is it I’m forgetting?’

Or have you always remembered?

Do you hum happy birthday to me quiet in your thoughts or whisper it aloud when you’re all alone?

I remember yours.

Do you listen to Jack Johnson when it rains? Do thunder storms make you curl up on the couch and drop the needle on the record player?

Have you heard our song on the radio?

Do you ever think of that perfect night at Red Rocks with the pink sunset and the yellow confetti that fell in our hair?

Did you delete all the playlists and snap all the vinyl?

Has enough time passed that hearing his songs are no longer painful?

It aches dull to me.

Have you been to San Francisco without me?

Do you think about fire escapes and Chinese takeout and fireworks on the fourth of July?

Remember the street we stayed on with the pitched pavement and yellow street lamps and the stray neighborhood cat?

Is the city just the same without us?

Are the hills just as steep and the winters just as mild?

I haven’t been.

Do you think of me when you look at the night sky?

Remember we chased that meteor shower all the way out into the country?

Remember I told you all the stories of the galaxies, the ones my grandpa told me first.

Do you think about how I made you watch the sky for shooting stars, how we’d lie on our back for hours and hours? I think you might have liked it.

Do you stargaze without me?

I hope you still do.

Do you remember that I sleep on my left side? That I like two pillows stacked up under my head?

That I brush my teeth before washing my face. That I only like Colgate.

That I like my showers piping hot.

That I like my toast a little bit burnt.

That I bite my nails when I’m nervous. You always hated that dirty habit.

I got rid of it by the way.

You slept on your back. You said you only needed one pillow, but would end up joining me on mine halfway through the night without fail.

You washed your face first and then brushed your teeth. You teased that this was the correct way, that I had it all backwards.

You liked your showers luke-warm.

You didn’t like toast at all.

You’re nervous habit was biting your lip. I always thought it was endearing.

Are you the same still?

Do you ever think you see me?

In a coffee shop or on the street.

Do you think you’ve heard my voice?

Did someone’s smile remind you of mine?

Do you hear my name and does it make you remember?

I remember.

Five years past, are we strangers still?

Do I flutter through your consciousness or show up in your dreams unannounced?

Are your thoughts of me joyous or melancholic? Are they laced in sorrow? Are they wistful and waning?

Do you think of me at all?

Have I made a home in a far corner of your brain?