How do you tell someone the favourite moment you remember of them is the way they walk, the way their shoulders are poised, the all-too familiar rhythm of their footsteps? How do you let them know you remember the exact hour and minute of the exact day you fell in love with their voice, and why this was the turning point in your life?  How do you begin to rationalise why you remember word for word a particular trivial sentence they had uttered?

Perhaps you don’t. 

There are certain memories I have of someone that are too personal and private to even describe to them. Not so much because I doubt they’d understand but perhaps because I fear they will. Being understood through a memory implies the terrifying prospect of another’s capability to read my unspoken vulnerability. 

Instead, I go through life cradling the secret memory of the way his eyes shines when he looks at me, or the way he habitually smiling before he starts a conversation, or the electrifying passion I experienced when his hands brushed against mine on a saturday. I do everything plausible to keep the memory alive, get it inked, write about it from all possible angles in all possible mediums, compose a song and philosophize the intricacies of such revelations life churns out methodically  until it becomes less about the memory itself or the people who helped create it, but instead what I take away from it.