She tries to forget.

She sits in the wind and she drinks her coffee and she listens to sad songs, all to forget the words he spoke, the stories he told her, the touches she still feels on her arm, the goosebumps she'd get from his skin brushing against hers. She distracts herself and she forgets and she finds peace with her turmoiled heart in the motion.

But, in those hidden moments; when she waits for the wind to pick up; when she waits for her coffee to brew; when she waits for the song to begin, her mind wanders, strays.

It drifts and lingers in the depths of their touches, the stories with their hidden meanings, the quiet sounds of their breaths mingling as they watch, listen, see. And suddenly, her thoughts take flight, rising up from the touches, the stories, the quiet, and landing on one overbearing question that's been plaguing her since the last day she saw him.

That day when his calloused hand caught hers and turned it over and held it and let it go.

Her world spins on a different axis, ever since that day; one that revolves around the days she'll see him; one that wonders if he waits for her and those days too.

"Do you think of me as much as I think of you?" she asks to the wind.

She hung on to a fading hope each day when he wouldn't show, when he wasn't there, and she'd question herself.

But then he tells her he waits for them too. Her heart soars.

And, when that day finally came, her eyes met his and they brightened, and with her cheeks red and his eyes smiling, they reminisced.

The breeze continues and her coffee brews, the air cool and intoxicating, but all she can think of is him and the words he spoke and the stories he told her. His eyes smiling. The feeling of his skin brushing hers.

He didn't forget.