Not for the acts I performed or the gestures I carried.
But for the excitement in my voice with every elongated story I told... or the way my lips nudged the back of your neck in the mornings.
Or how my only cheek dimple displayed naturally when you would wash the rest of the soap from my baby hairs.
Or the temperature that I love my showers.
Or the light nail scratch on your forearm at various moments of a night that seemed so random to you (but were so full of purpose).
Or even the frantic hour spent on the phone with your doctor when your anxiety attacks felt lethal.
Don’t remember what my witty comebacks were.
Remember the face I made when I had one bubbling internally like cauldron water.
Remember the way my voice sounded when I answered your calls of distress at ungodly hours because “T, I just fucked up and I needed you to hear it.”
I hope you wake up sometimes still feeling me there and not just conditionally.
Because I do too...
I’ll never forget those, those moments.
The “me” you knew before my innocence stripped.
The moments of vulnerability before one of the most traumatic nights to dawn.
The frustration in letting even a single drop render from my ducts because I knew you would never
Less of what you could for me, but how it was received.
Something done very well.
I never mourn my impression.
... just the fractions of what has escaped.
My only hope with every thoughtful feminist e is that it is more than just that.