About Last Night...

Dear smile I see almost every morning I wake up,

I was laying in your bed last night, on top of your blankets and sheets. You were sitting next to me and we were sharing a burrito. I picked up your phone to take a picture, that technology has yet to make its way into my pocket. The picture I took of us was blurry, poorly lit, and the composition seemed off. I thought it was just the camera, so I asked to look at your other pictures. And it wasn't the camera, it was me.

There was the Statue of Liberty, and Times Square. There was me in the kitchen. There was that picture you sent me when I sat alone in that bar one night. And that was all that was familiar. There were a couple of a guy I have never seen before or met. But I think I know his name, and who he is, but I didn't want to ask, and you didn't offer any information, not like you did with the other pictures.

Now I know, personally, what you were talking about when we saw their pictures of San Francisco and the pictures of their visit to the mid-west accidentally showed up. When all you can think about is spending time with someone, missing them, wanted them to be around, and you see them enjoying their life without you, well, that is a feeling I don't care to revisit.

But you can't go back, you can't take away those smiles, those laughs, those tears or those kisses. And there is no reason to get rid of those mementos. If you do, you might forget why you don't visit those place anymore, it happened to me.

Then there were pictures of your friends. And of car rides. And babies. And pets. And you and your ex, the one I know. And that was a year ago. Or more. And you looked so happy.

I was hurt. Not for all of these pictures, but for the ones that weren't there. Of us. I thought that you didn't want pictures of us together in your phone, mingling with your past lives. And I thought that you might not take as many pictures as you used to. But I didn't say anything.

We shared a couch later, and some drinks. I remembered the flowers from mere hours before. Your surprise, and your smile.

And I wasn't hurt anymore. Who cares what pictures of who are where? Who cares if your interest in cellular photography has passed you by? At the end of the day, we share a bed, and in the morning, you wake up in my arms, smiling. And all of those hours between mean just as much, if not more. So I'm sorry for the brief cold sentences yesterday. Patterns are easy to repeat, ruts are hard to get out of, but I'm trying.

I hope you find this.

Sincerely,
Me.