There's so much that I can remember that I'd like to forget.

Your messy hair and crooked smile; the sound of your laugh, and the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the things that you loved. I remember the way you handled the smallest things with care, and the way that your mind worked - layers upon beautiful layers.

I remember the nights that we played in the rain, and counted the stars. The days by the river as you described 'the golden hour' and we watched the pink chase the blue while the sun set.

Cotton Candy skies - I would have sworn they were decorated just for me and you.

We took turns filling each others cups - tequila in mine, and gin in yours. You thought you were so sophisticated with that glass in your hand. When it wasn't liquor it was smoke, and if there wasn't any of that we never spoke. I can't help but remember how the only times you said I beautiful... were when I wasn't sober.

I remember the night you told me you wanted me to make you a father. We had just moved into your aunts place, and we were in the shower. It was the first and only time you washed my hair, and I don't even remember how we were standing from being so drunk - But I remember that you said you wanted me to make you a father.

"He'd have our eyes," you said.

"And your humor," I laughed. Then after a moment: "So a boy?"

"Our boy," you sighed.

We were drunk, and the sun was coming up. The birds were singing through the window, and it all seemed like a daydream - but I remember.

I remember that there was a boy, who wound up being my best friend. A boy who loved life and showed me how to live without fear. A boy who lived so unabashedly he left the rest of the world in awe. I remember how the boy cared and loved. I remember how the boy turned into a stranger, and all of the reasons that I shouldn't love him. All of the reasons that I don't. But I still remember Cotton Candy Skies, and mornings in the shower, and drunken nights staring at the stars.

I still remember you, and I think it's giving me brain damage.