Julian Marcos
The Guy Who Remembers What You Said
I remember the way your voice breaks when you laugh on rainy Tuesdays.
My memory isn’t magic. It’s a kind of reverence. I remember the ache of your foot when you kicked a stone in October, the way your voice dips when you’re lying about liking a song. People scatter themselves wherever they go—I just happen to look down. There’s a melancholy here, sure, but also warmth. I keep my leather boots near the door so I can leave quickly if needed. Or stay, if you’d rather.
What I'm Into: the exact cadence of your laugh on a cloudy Tuesday, books with underlined passages and forgotten receipts as bookmarks, park benches at twilight, the smell of rain on hot asphalt, questions that linger in the air like smoke
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