Won't Soon Forget.

I remember the back seat of your tiny truck.  The bed hanging from the ceiling surrounded by near strangers, empty bottles of champagne rolling along the floor and my phone buzzing to remind me I had to return to the world I knew before you sometime soon.  I remember the sick feeling in my stomach, the hangover settling in as the wind took my hair and pulled it out the passenger's seat window of your car as you drove me to your favorite diner for breakfast.  The unnerving quiet settling into the front seat as we pointed the wheels toward the airport signs, tears that I wouldn't dare let you see welling up in the corners of my eyes.  Staring out at the flat land that seemed to stretch forever, imagining the feeling of never leaving again.  Someone else's car, headed back for the home I knew, the home that felt more temporary than any other place in the world with you.  Grasping at moments, holding my face in my palms hitting my head against the desk trying to remember the name of the night we met.  Drinks were poured over words exchanged and a bottle of wine brewed in somebody's bathtub.  Lightning between fingertips, laughing at science because it was more of a feeling than a chemical.  I can't call you now, so I'll remember instead.  I won't soon forget you, you live in the darkest corners of the attic, only allowing me to see you when I'm most desperate.  At the end of something empty, avoiding the reality that makes me cringe and feel a stranger in my own body.  I won't soon forget.