I awarded old pictures a few nights ago my nostalgic stare, as I unfolded old memories like paper planes and watched them like old movies. I knew what I was remembering wasn’t how it happened, skipping the bad parts, only remembering the moments I thought were nice enough, sort of like staring at the rain and ignoring the ruthless storm that devours the leaves in the trees and robs the wind of tranquility in exchange for furious blows. I skipped through them rapidly, yet for some I would stare and relive them, and with my eyes closed I could feel the furniture lightly touch my fingertips, the gracious feeling of her hovering behind me ready to land a kiss like a plane on a landing strip, knowing exactly where to fall to go back home to my eyes as I turned and gently moved my hands around her thighs to tell her how beautiful she was. I got so close to reliving these well tucked away memories that I could still smell the old flowers on the table with the fragrance of their perfume dancing so eloquently around me, that I connected every dead rose to her when I walked upon a dying mob of wild ones every autumn after I left her. Unfortunately, it was just a matter of time before the bad feelings erupted non chalantly and the memories came to life the way they were lived, and I could remember the days that were spent staring at the storms, fighting as if the only thing that mattered was shattering our hearts in revenge and shoving the pieces into our faces in a quest to act like martyrs and prove to one another how the other one was breaking the others heart, and then we did what we did best, we cut each other with those sharp mishandled parts and shoved them into our eyes, until one of us fell down like a wounded soldier and cried. At what point I ask myself, did love begin to mean that we were supposed to suffer? When did we acknowledge that it was OK to cause pain to each other and accept it was part of the process of loving?