Jigsaw pieces

I remember every little detail. The rounded cobblestones that contoured to my feet, the constant drizzle, the sights, the smells, the bustling crowds. I remember you. Aloof in a world far away, but yet every pore in me wanted to absorb it all. To cram as much as I could into those precious hours. Every moment that ticked closer to the end became more precious than its predecessor. Every ingrained memory a splinter of my breaking heart. 

I remember the ache, this heart wrenching pain of remembrance, but yet I hold on, because the pain reminds me that I'm still here. There's still hope. And hope is what propels desire and fuels motivation. It is hope that we all strive for. Hope that we cling to. 

So when your low-class-lowlife rants catch my attention, I feel like a part of me has been gutted out. Your empty wants are my overflowing dreams. Your vapid giggles are my tears and sweat. Your spineless need to have a man by your side are my lonely days and night, working for what I believe is true. 

I know it's true. For that 72 hours, I lived a dream.