To Memorize You

I want to memorize you.
Not just the big things—
the birthdays,
the milestones,
the stories we retell until they shine.

But the way you breathe
when you’re almost asleep.
The way your eyes shift
when you’re about to laugh.
The pause you take
before saying something kind.

I want to archive your gestures,
file away your footsteps,
catalogue the songs you hum
when no one’s listening.
I want to become a museum
of your existence—
quiet,
curated,
forever.

Because you are finite.
And I cannot bear it.

You are made of mornings
that will never come again,
and glances
that last half a second,
and love
that lives louder
than any language I know.

And I—
I am made of memory.
So let me hold you
in the only way I know how:

By collecting every detail,
every second,
every soft, fleeting thread
of who you are—
and storing it in me
so nothing of you is ever truly lost.

I want to remember
the warmth of your fur,
the sound of your paws,
the way your soul
wrapped around mine
without words.

I want to remember
every moment you made me feel
like loving this hard
was the most important thing
I could ever do.

You are my reason.
And this—
this is how I make you infinite.

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