I don’t know what led to what first; the warmth in my embrace, the cold side of my bed, the soft Christmas songs whispering the arrival of a new season. How ironic that forgetting was how I remembered the memories that survived Memory is a cruel tide rushing in only when the shore has grown quiet again, when I finally stopped searching for your face in crowds, stopped replaying the end like a scratched vinyl that’s when your name came back to the tip of my tongue, weightless uninvited like a ghost tapping the glass just to prove it still knows the way home. And maybe that’s all love ever…