One day

I think one day I'll stop thinking about you.
It's becoming harder to conjure your face by memory alone. It's not a clear picture, and it keeps moving. I know your eyes are a grey-blue, and your hair can be almost-black to a coppery, burnished chestnut. The small flowers I would see on our hikes in the hills always reminded me of your hair. When you neglected to dye it, the roots were my favorite to touch.
Your nose, with a crook to the left, was my favorite line. your snores were comforting, if not just adorable.
I can't quite recall your mouth. Did you have dimples? I know your laugh was light, sometimes gasping and helpless. Your lips would purse when you were petting those two mongrels for cats.
Maybe in the future I'll stop and be surprised you haven't crossed my mind for days or weeks.
But then, I'll be wistful. I'll try to remember how it felt to hold your hand or what your perfume smelled like. I'll wonder how you're doing, and I'll hope that you're loved and happy.
(I'll also probably think wryly about the eleven thousand dollars I lent to you for your loans.)
Mostly though, I think I'll miss the way it felt to love you. I haven't found out yet if I can love like that again. I don't know if I should feel sad about it.
I suppose it's selfish to make it about me, but even selflessness has some component of selfishness. It's unavoidable.
Just like it's unavoidable to wonder if you even think of me at all.