Memory is a tenuous thing, streaming x-rays flickering on and off, where happiness escapes me and faces are vague. Where memory is something I can still touch, still rely on. My happiest memories have no place in the past; they are those I have yet to create. The memories that will soon come in time with you. Under sun-streaked evenings, wrapped in your cinnamon arms, where it's silent except for your occasional sigh. Where I can be beside you and breathe you in like a cool sea brezze in the middle of summer. Feeling the perfection in the texture of your skin, sublime petals, pressed into recollection. As the compulsion of happiness jumps in and out of my mind, I look for it as yesterday seems to come tied up in ribbons of pain, and I find it in the gentle beat of your heart, waiting to be released in your smile, and all of the hope blossming inside.