Remember

“Harry Connick, Jr. – A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square“ -Hear me out, listen to this while reading… it changes things

The stranger took his hand. Someone had done this before, with the same gentleness, the same way their fingers were laced together and warm against his cold hands. The hair on the back of his neck stood. How could something be familiar yet not remember why? Looking into the stranger's eyes he could recall a warm shade of yellow when tree leaves would turn before he looked into them. Though eyes once like the autumn leaves were now clouded with grief and sadness? He shook his hand out of the stranger's grasp, fingers still tingling from their touch. The stranger sighed, and a thought appeared in his head, a sigh after a long fight, the slam of a door and thuds of footsteps going down stairs, and a feeling of guilt rose in his stomach. He closed his eyes and blocked out the thoughts. He turned and began walking away from the stranger, he didn’t know her, he pushed away the thoughts of their fingers interlocking, knowing every curve of her face like second nature, the way she would purse her lips when she was mad, the way his eyes looked into hers and made him feel lost in the seasons, why he knew that same smell of perfume after being so close. “Wait,” He heard a call behind him. His head told him to keep walking, to forget, don’t stop. But his feet halted, he opened his eyes to the surprise of being frozen still. He could hear the stranger’s footsteps behind him coming closer till his face was in front of hers, only inches apart. He felt each of her breaths, sharp, quick and warm where it reached his face, being a striking difference between the cold in the air. Slowly the stranger's hands moved up towards his face, he flinched when he felt the soft touch reach his cheeks, recalling the lighting of a dimly lit bridge where this had happened before, her fingers caressed his face, lightly running a finger over the edge of his ear, touching the corners of his lips. Without thinking, he found his own hands moving on their own as if by instinct to reach for her face in return in the same gentle way. His heart beat in his chest, pounded in his ears, what was he doing? He didn’t know her. Why was there a recollection of a night on the bridge with starlight like this one? When he had been close like this. Had he always longed to feel the softness of her lips? He recalled a moment of passion that he saw once again in the strangers eyes, becoming familiar for even just a second. He remembered the slow song that played far away in the night, the breeze that seemed to chill the night air and the way he’d pulled her so close. The stranger took his face and slowly pulled him in. His own hands met the strangers, he closed his eyes. Don’t fight it, his heart seemed to say. But, he stopped. Through closed eyes he could feel the stranger shift in her hands, he peeled away her hands from his face and slowly opened his eyes to meet hers, now filled with hurt. He felt his own heart crack in his chest, the thoughts of regret in stopping their moment. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m not who you're looking for”