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My memory is slightly inefficient. And when I say slightly inefficient I mostly refer to how I forget most of the main points of, for example, a book I’ve read or a story someone has just shared with me. When I see a movie, I don’t think of the main plot but about the most specific, almost unnoticeable details, like the facial expression of an actor in some random scene or the melody of a song playing, like those tunes that play on an old jukebox in the background. You see, these small details are my reference of actually remembering something, anything, and without them I’m left practically blank. To some this might sound pretty awful, and sometimes I think, “this is pretty awful”, because I find myself stuck on this cycle of always having incomplete thoughts, and nobody likes to feel incomplete. But then I think, “this is pretty great”, and I think this because I’ve learnt that this is my own way of an auto defense mechanism for thoughts that create dark and heavy shadows, just so I don’t have to confront them and drag them along. But this is not the exact point of all this, this is just a way to give more understanding to these scattered words of mine. What I really want to express is the way I feel electric chills run throughout my veins and a sudden growth of warmth in my belly and in my bones. Like when I drive endlessly and I see a light post blinking dysfunctionally, because the last we talked was after watching a film and we knew it was the end, and even though I can’t remember exactly the words we shared, I just can’t shake out that unbalanced blinking light in the empty parking lot where we sat inside of my Jeep Liberty at 2 a.m. In my mind it was as if it was mocking us, blinking sensually and slyly simultaneously. As If it already knew the outcome of our precipitous heartbreak. Or like when I’m walking around and I see a person from afar exhale smoke from their skinny little cigarette, especially if they’re Marlboro Red, because you just recently started smoking and you started with Reds and I drilled you about how someday you’d never be able to smoke them again because that’s the nature of smoking your first brand of cigarettes, and how you denied me that because you said you’d never get sick of anything. You said routine is natural for you. I can recognise that smell like a canine sniffing out drugs in some federal institution. But, what I’m really trying to say is how it amazes me that even though you’re absent physically in my life, even though our paths are not aligned anymore, it’s absolutely remarkable how the essence of you lingers in the most precise, most stupid details, and I just can’t seem to shake them off with this cursed memory of mine.