I used to carry the photograph of us,

but now I carry the memory of how I dropped it in the subway.

I carry the regret of not going back far enough to retrieve it.

I carry the resentment of not walking back through the gate to confirm it wasn’t really there.

I carry the sadness of not knowing where the photograph went and the pain of never getting it back again.

But I also carry the memory of the photograph itself,

the smoothness of the Polaroid,

the smallness of it’s size in my ever so small hands,

your name crinkly imprinted at the bottom from your failed attempt to sign your name in pen.

I carry the image itself in my mind,

the hug we shared for the first time,

the happiness I felt for it,

the memory of the first time meeting you at your concert and confessing everything you’ve done for me.

I carry the bittersweet goodbye,

the “You are never alone,”

the continuously warm embrace that showed you cared.

I carry a now dormant fluttery feeling in my heart,

one that I used to feel,

one that could only be awakened by looking at the photograph.

I carry hope that I will see you again,

to get another chance,

to get another hug,

another photograph,

another reason to ignite the fire in my heart that will never truly burn as bright as it once did... until we meet again.

But until then, I carry a purpose,

I carry a reason to see you again.

It serves as the motivation I carry.

But most importantly, I carry you, because you have done more for me than you’ll ever know, and never even realize it.