I can't remember much. Just odd distortions of static vertigo and flashes of lighting that won't quite fit into my sky of memories.*
Bright sparks that disappear as fast as they came, forever out of reach no matter how far I stretch my fingers. Even when the pictures appear on the back of my eyelids like a slideshow of movies I think I have seen before, and my brain whispers that those, those are memories - I cannot tell what was real and what was not. The first reason is because, well, you know. The second is because memories dull, as memories do, when time goes on. I used to hate it, because of the way I could not remember. There would be long blanks where I cannot tell what happened, where everything was a sharp white. Time is a reminder that anything, everything could have happened when I was gone, and there would be no way to tell if it was real.
I can't remember much. Just odd distortions of static vertigo and flashes of lighting that won't quite fit into my sky of memories. But I remember he had rough fingertips. His favorite color was red. I remember that his teeth would have been straight if it were not for the tooth on the right, which curved inwards, ruining what would have been perfect symmetry. He had hair that would turn curly if it grew out too much. He always had some observation, some revelation that lit his face up like a spotlight when he turned around to explain it to me. *He was a brilliant shooting star that vanished before I could lift my head.
I cannot remember his birthday or when we first kissed.
I don't know if all the time we spent was real.
I cannot separate the truths from the untruths, but I know that he - he was not a work of my muddled consciousness, not a work of fiction.
*I know he was real, as real as the Sun himself.