Lately, I couldn't remember those years, as if childhood was a movie I'd only seen the previews to.

A moment only happens once but some of them take so much longer than a moment to understand, to see.

I knew that my husband was a song that I had forgotten the words to and I was a fuzzy photograph of someone he used to love.

And he'd said nothing or something that amounted to nothing, and I tongued this memory like a burn in my mouth until the bathwater cooled and shook me back into my body where my fingerprints were ruffled.

...no moment cares, and the ones you wish could stretch out like a hammock for you to lie in, well, those moments leave the quickest and take everything good with them, little burglars, those moments, those hours, those days you loved the most.