nothing lasts

I don't know what I would say to you if I was given a chance. One last chance? We never know when "last" is. Not in a case like that.
There's "the last time I saw you.." which was in the hallway outside of my apartment. You earnestly said that I would see you again, that I would because you didn't say things like that unless you meant it.
I could say "the last time I loved someone" which was you, in your bedroom; you grasping me and resting your head against my torso. I felt blessed to have you so close to me. I felt blessed by your initiative.
Then I have "the last time I heard from you" which was a text that said "I'm sorry for some of the ways I treated you."
I still wonder which ways you meant; the good or the bad. The kind that made me love you or the kind that made me cry. The things that brought me hope and joy or the things that caused people to use words like "abusive."
The last time I talked about you was yesterday, in the car with Prec. I told her about those things that drew me to you and she said, "Sounds perfect!" Then I mentioned the former drug use and alcoholism and she said something about how you had a long way to go before you could think about a relationship. I know. I know, but I loved you anyway. I loved you and I don't regret it because it brought me further than I could have gone alone.
Out here in the sun in southern Florida it is easy to write these things. I'm so far from the snow and the memory of your touch. There's nothing to remind me of your smile, your laugh, your songs, your scent. There's nothing here to whisper your name to me. Nobody here knows you. Just me.
I said to Prec, "I see the potential in people and I love them for it." She said, "that's dangerous with men because most of them never reach that potential." It's true. I don't know how to change my vision. I don't know how to see as is instead of how could be.
I love people as they were, as they are, as they could be.
I love you for all those things, too.
I want to know how people get to where they are. I want to know what went into the making of you. I want to know who hurt you and how, and how you hurt them back. I like comparisons. I adore before-and-afters.
I don't know how to go forward without looking back.
I can't get over anyone without first reliving every moment I can remember.
I curse my shoddy memory. I praise its ability to forget that which I do not wish to lose.