I still know every significant mole on his skin, the constellations they form. I still know the patterns of his feet when he dances, playing like a montage in the back of my head. I still know his insecurities, his fears. I still know his ambitions, his hidden joys, his beliefs, and what kind of man he aspires to be. I still know his story, his past, and what he’s trying to learn from it. I still know all his sacrifices, and the trials he has triumphed. I still know and recognize every one of the various variations of his voice depending on his mood and the time of day, my favourite being the raspy, dark and slow voice he gets when he’s tired, right before he falls asleep and how it sounded when he said he loved me with it. I still know the way his eyes can reveal every emotion he holds, and how to read him from nothing but looking into them. I still know all of these things, and a million things more and they will never leave me, for they are the most precious memories I hold. But oh how strange it is, to know someone like this and pretend you don’t know them all.
