I still have it, you know. That soft green tee you liked so much. You wore it as often as the sun shined, but I always think about the fair when I see it. That one day where you decided it was time for me to "forget all this crap and have some real fun for once". I remember pulling up to the yelling children and escaping balloons in Baby, confused by all the noise, yet willing to do whatever you wanted, as long as it made the corners of your mouth reach all the way to your ears. You paid for our admission, and I was so proud that it wasn't with a stolen card. If I bury my face in that old green thing, past the musty smell, I can remember the Ferris wheel. It was strange, being up so high without trying. Always a child, you kissed me only up there because there was "no way Sam could spy on us". I still tasted your cotton candy from earlier. If I'm feeling sad enough, I'll put it on, carefully pulling it over my head, and remember later that day, the way you gripped me tight, remember the way you voice hitched, remember they way you looked at me.
Remember the way you said goodbye.

But I'll never remember you saying hello again.