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I don't remember his face.

I remember a hazy halo of gold, shifting about his head in the breeze. It smelled like the gardens and of rain, of things alive and growing. It was warm and alive as I ran my hands through it, twinning the shaggy strands around my fingers. His skin was smooth, the line of his jaw fitting perfectly into my palm. His lips were chapped, but still somehow moist; he licked them constantly, like a nervous tic. His smile was more brilliant than the sun, and it warmed my soul as well as my cheeks.

I can't remember his voice.

His accent made everything he said sound profound, like he knew the meaning of the universe, and would share it with me if I listened hard enough. His timbre was normally light and even, a rich voice without being particularly deep. It sounded like melted honey and his laughter was like a flock of birds in flight. When he got angry a harsh growl lurked in every vowel and curled around his consonants. His whisper was the softest breath against my ear, desperation in each panted sound as he tried to muffle his feelings by burying his face against my neck.

I don't remember the last thing we said to each other.

I know what we should've said. I know we said it with our eyes and our hearts even if our mouths couldn't form the words. I know that he knew how I felt about him, how I would always feel. He would tell me to move on, to let go and find someone else. I would tell him that there was no one else that mattered. It would turn into a fight, an endless cycle, until one of us broke it the only way we knew how. A harsh press of lips, a needy hand curling into the hair at the nape of the other's neck. It never solved the initial problem, but it solved us. It made everything come together in a way that didn't need actual words to make it make sense. Words were never enough for us, could never bridge the gap between how we felt and how it could be expressed. Our last words were soundless. My eyes begging him not to ask me to leave, his eyes telling me to let go. My arms reaching back wanting to hold him, wanting him to know how loved he would always be. His smile told me he knew. His smile told me he regretted nothing except that our time together was cut short.

I don't remember the last time we touched.

Every night I held him against my chest. Our skin hot, our breath mingling. I sheltered him against all the pain and doubt, and he filled me with the notion that I was strong and capable. We gave to each other the things we lacked, fixing the parts of ourselves that were incomplete. Our bodies always fit together, from the first time I held his hand as he helped me up after he had punched me to the ground. I don't remember what it was that had caused him to hit me, except that I had been mouthing off and deserved it. I don't think I deserved the smile he gave me after, and the way his fingers curled protectively around mine as he jerked me up off my ass. We found so many small ways to touch after that, in concern, in comradery, in anger, and in passion. A culmination of our life stories told in the slightest of brushes, the stroke of a cheek, fingers digging into each other's hips until bruises formed. Every touch told a new story, revealed slowly and reverently as the days passed in a blur of sameness.

I don't remember our first kiss.

I was uncharacteristically shy once I realized what was happening between us. His touches told me it was alright, they encouraged me onward. I stared at his lips often, his tongue darting out to run across them like an invitation. Hours wondering how it would feel, how it would taste. All the kisses blend into one now, a feeling and shared memory so powerful my bones turn to powder against the force. My lungs quiver and deflate into nothingness. There is only the sensation of his warmth, his body pressed tight against mine, his face millimetres away. He teases me, darting in with the gentlest of pecks, dipping away before I can catch and hold him. His breath tickles my skin and I can feel him smiling. Slowly he would lean in and close the gap, lips flushed and swollen. We fit together from the start, knowing how to move with each other, knowing what was needed. Lips parted and tongues sliding against one another. Breath gasping, fingers scraping over bare skin. Our kisses were parts of ourselves, our feelings, our secrets; our kisses were the parts of ourselves we could never find the words to express yet we could share with each other, know each other in a way that no one else ever could.

I don't remember how much I miss him.

I don't have to anymore.

His hand is warm and soft and is just like I knew it would be. It curls around mine like it had never left. Years melt away from me as he helps me up, withered flesh smoothing out, gaunt flesh filling back in. I rise from my bed, standing straighter than I've been able to in years. My steps don't falter as he leads me forward. His smile as he turns back to look over his shoulder at me is even brighter than the light he's leading me towards. We walk together in silence, past the few people in the room crying, past the small cabin and the edge of paradise. We walk to the ocean, towards the horizon that stretches out towards eternity. We stop at the shore for a brief moment. My heart pounds in fear and awe, but he turns once more with a smile that promises me that everything will be alright. Our fingers tighten around each other and with a nod we take a step forward together. Our first step. Our last. I look over at him, and he is everything I remember and more. His eyes are clear and full of years worth of words he's been waiting to say.

Now we have forever to say them.