Over the days of summer.
I don’t want to count the days since I have met you. I don’t want
to recount the times we’ve had and assign them to day number
one to five hundred. One, because they might not seem that
important to you as they are to me. Two, because I don’t want to
reduce the days we’ve had to numbers. Three, I am afraid that as
I am counting, I am also anticipating an end. Five hundred, I want
us to have day five hundred one and more.
I want the days to last. I want to remember you in infinity. For
once, I want to blur the memories- where we went, what we
ate, what we talked about, what movie we watched, what
exactly happened at which day. Which came first, which came
after the other, how everything started and perhaps how it will
end. I want to let go of the little moments to have that sense of
I want to remember you like a happy dream. Or perhaps, I just
want to remember you. A foolish wish to be free from memories
that will bring tears of regret and nostalgia. I want a memory
uncertain enough for me to end up remembering that I have
always loved you and you have always loved me in a way that is
special. Even if it is not the kind of love written in the books.
Even if it still, at the end feels like the love that shortened the
number of days to half a thousand. I just want to remember you.
For more than five hundred days. I want to remember you for ten