Our life, the time we spend on this earth, is measured by the people we were with. Your first kiss, your first heartbreak, the first, and certainly not the last, time she poured a drink on you because she thought it was funny. We compartmentalize our timeline, using people as labels. You asked me what I wanted to be remembered for, and you expected a more detailed answer. Now that I have thought about it, we can’t choose what we are remembered for. We can hope, but it would be frivolous. I don’t remember what you look like, your smell no longer lingers, and I have forgotten what it feels like to hold you and to be held by you. Texts have gone missing in the mail, the wind has been taken out of my sails, and the sails have been ripped to shreds. If a person gives everything in life, is there anything left to be remembered by? I don’t want to remember you, I want you to be a constant reminder.