your name a film of tears on my lips

I woke up to memories of you today. I let myself indulge in them for half an hour. Not the daffodil sweetness of the beginning, but tulips, young sunflowers - my arms around you in the lift that last night; "aww, what's this?". Your arms around me so tight, the way your eyes looked so close just before you closed them. The December night we started talking again, my voice struggling to hold together, your every word. The little scrapbook I gave you as we bade goodbye, and your comments on it weeks later. What have you done with it since? How many times has it seen light? In a movie, it would've been thrown away - the pain of a gift and the memories it holds - but I don't believe you'd do that, especially after you said that I shouldn't have made it. You'd be courteous enough to keep it, right? Perhaps I don't even want to know. I don't know why you shut me off so completely. I know you cried, and I want so much to know when you've cried for me. Simply because I've cried more in those few months than I have the rest of my life, and I deserve to know when you shared that pain. I know there's no hope of a future; I don't even want it; it'd be too painful. But I wish you'd tell me your side of the story. What I've always wanted to know. The questions you smell a mile away, those that send you hiding.