autobiography.

I kept the cup once full of lemonade I had held so tightly as the freeways passed us in the cold of dawn. I kept the empty container of sugar you handed me as we pulled out of the driveway, the sugar I placed on your lips in the middle of the night and in the morning as you left for the ocean. I kept the sheets in a pile on the floor. I kept the soap and the brownies and the ice in the freezer. I kept all the pieces I could hold onto. And I know that one day those pieces will mean more to me than any reality ever did. It's because when I think of you, I think of impossibilities. Tangible objects prove to me that you exist as a small piece of my world. They will prove that you were a part of my existence long after the freeways stretch farther than we are willing to drive.