• When you pass by a bookstore, when you see a sale sign and below it, a pile of hardbound books, some with their jackets missing, I hope you remember me and how I go crazy, how I run my hands to check them all one by one, how I sit on the floor or the sidewalk not caring what I wear just to have a good look at each. When you see those book filled shelves and the books stacked on the floor, I hope you remember the way my eyes widen and glimmer when I stare at them, I hope you remember how I almost forgot I have you with me a couple of times, I hope you remember me reading all the page forty fives. I hope you remember me trying hard to control my urge to buy everything.
  • When you pass by coffee shops, I hope you remember me spending sleepless nights studying mad. I hope you remember us and conversations and silence. I hope you remember how you worry because I can spend days with just coffee without eating any food. I hope you remember how I hate it when coffee shops don't have smoking areas. And when you see these smoking areas, when you smell smoke, when you kiss somebody with a cigarette mouth, Marlboro blacks particularly, I hope you remember me, and how I smoke too much. I hope you remember how many times you've tried to stop me from smoking or at least tried to cut me down. I hope you remember how I got you to smoke. I hope you remember me and my odd remarks.
  • There are many things that I wish would remind you of me, actually. Like when you hear Cash or Dylan, or like when you play your old records, when you drink your beer, when you drive alone, I hope you remember me. I know this is temporary and any time, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, next month, tonight, you'll leave. I know, you will leave me. I am not that important. I have accepted the fact that you can dispose of me any time. Or so I wish to believe that I already accepted that, but that's another story. But hear me, please. All I want, after you throw me away, is for you to remember me. Please remember me.
nov 4 2012 ∞
nov 4 2012 +