Sometimes

Sometimes I want to take that picture of my face, that one you will always remember. The one you will think about in a year, in three years, when you realize you have lost more than you had thought you did.

That picture must be of my face, because everything else about me, you really never used to care that much about, anyway. But when you look at that picture of my face, you will remember how my eyes couldn’t lie to you. You will remember how my lips couldn’t hurt you. You will remember my voice, whispering softly in your ears to soothe your fears and pain. You will remember how I used to do anything for you, without you or me saying so. You will miss all that, but I think you knew it all along when you had me near, every day.

You will see that picture and you will right-click-save into a folder marked with a meaningless name in some other random folder somewhere on your hard drive. In this folder are all the other pictures you believed I had made for you (and you were most likely right). Most of them, will have my face erased, or blurred, just like you like to erase the pain, get rid of the mementos of past happiness. But these other pictures have your face in them, and for some reason, they don’t mean as much to you as that one single picture of my face.

Something about my face.
Something about the way I look at you.
Something about it will remind you of why you still care about me.

Such a photo, you’ll need to save.