If you can number it, then it will make sense

I always like hot chocolate made super dark and rich and just a little sweet. I like it best hot enough to burn my lips but be cool by the time it hits my tongue. I used to wonder how I should make it for you. If you’d like it the color of chocolate milk from plastic bottles at the store—lighter and sweeter—or if you’d like it dark as the earth.

I love the guitar work in my favorite song. I had a guitar once but never learned to play it though I named it. Something about naming a musical instrument has always appealed to me. It feels so close a relationship, so personal, that it should be on a first name basis.

I like to eat wafer cookies in layers. The crème and the cookie and the crème and the cookie. I always wondered if you’d eat yours the same way. Maybe you were more practical, just bite by bite and all together, all at once.

I sometimes wake up and can’t remember falling asleep. No, I’m saying that wrong. I can remember getting into bed and closing my eyes but I can’t remember that one, perfect and exact moment when I actually fell into dreams. Sometimes you’re in my dreams but you never look quite like you.

I’ve never liked my hands. The scars across them seem so unremarkable. A cat scratch, a dog bite, a knife cut, and burns. I asked you once if scars shouldn’t be remarkable. What does it say about someone when they can’t remember exactly how they got scarred?

I like making lists. I try to remember everything in numbered order. To put things into patterns, into sets, into their place, seems a good way of keeping one’s self from harm. That’s all I’ve ever really wanted to do.

I liked the color of your eyes. The shape of your jaw line. The way you sometimes looked like someone else from odd angles. The sound of your voice. I probably meant to tell you this. To list the ways in which I loved you. I don’t remember if I did though.


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