Water

I remember it. Not clearly, but blearily as though I'm looking through a glass of water that is positioned just slightly further than reach.

I remember simple things. The way you bit your nail when anxious yet happy, but yet far too anxious about being happy. The way you would stare at me just so, like you could see completely through me without really knowing much at all. Your allergies and teenage dreams. Unspoken fears that I know, in my bones, rule you still.

You have always been the picture of poise. Of rules. Of strict agendas and perfect breeding. And yet that is not you at all, and while I haven't spoken to you for longer than I knew you, I still know you to a devastating degree. I check your accounts obsessively, hoping that it will change. That you'll free yourself. I've glimpsed moments where you have, before horribly retreating into your half-ajar cage.

And I am still defiant. Still rebellious. Frustrating and your antithesis, and yet I still care. For all I have done, and all you have done, I care. I wish for you to come back with every lost eyelash on the print of my finger, every cawing crow and every blushing star. I will you to return. Just so I can tell you I remember.

And that I forgive it all as it comes back to me in its watery haze.