I Never Died on that Mountain

Remember that night I told you I wanted a picture of the way your face looked an inch or two from my own as you lay next to me because I had seen your face a million times but never in that way? Maybe my eyes were crossed or weren't focused well enough to see your flaws is what you said demurely, and I said you had none. You touched your forehead and sighed, then smiled preciously a moment later when you looked into my eyes and saw how hurt I was that you mistook my genuine honesty as some sort of practised line.

Remember that?

Do you recall the time we went to the amusement park and I marveled over the photograph displayed after we rode the Amazon Adventure coaster because your face was buried in fear while mine was unbridled glee personified, and I wanted to purchase the photo as testement of our stark differences yet mutual pleasure -- I believe you brought up the sexual symbolism, not me -- but you didn't want me to, and I conceded because the glossy photograph would only tell part of the story, while the entire novel was nestled comfortably in my head (still is; always will be)?

Sound familiar?

Think hard. I mean REALLY think. Do you remember the night -- when we first met, this was -- we stayed up watching TV, paying absolutely no attention to whatever was on the tube at the time, staring at it instead as a beacon, a lighthouse guiding you and me to each other? I kissed the back of your neck and held you in my arms for a thousand years.

Nothing?

How's this, then? Do you remember when I promised to love you forever, till the day I die, that I would never stop loving you?

Ring a bell?

Of course not.

Because this is not about you.