I guess it would be better to know, right?

Sometimes people turn things so black and white that they forget the details. Details. Things you make note of in your head, things you make note of to remember. Some things force themselves on you. Like--I had on that shirt then, and those striped socks and I had bought the lemon shoes he commented on--and he said they were the brightest things that night. Details. Curly hair and brown skin, the Salvation army. He played every instrument you could ever want to play, and the last time I saw him in person he followed me to the thrift store and played "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away" loudly on an old antique piano until I found him there. I pretended I didn't see him, and he was wearing a Sound of Music T-shirt and had a walking stick with him. He knew that I saw him and followed me to a great big brown velvet couch. Black mesh Jansport backpack. We said about ten words to eachother back and forth, mostly about some 50's shoes I found. He bought them for me and then had to catch a bus. Before then, he could never surprise me because of the chain he wore, because he jingled everywhere he went. It had three keys on it, and a drum set key. Details. How he used to catch me in his arms like I was his sister or love, and how he used to have this great big straight white smile but he told me he never had braces. We both played the cello. He was two inches taller than me, and we drank out of the same cups and practically shared a great big water bottle one summer. He used orange tooth paste and he'd tell me jokes and secrets and we'd gossip because we had the same sense of humor. We drew in each other's sketch books, sacred hearts and mad men with glass eyes, screaming at the sky with their heads on fire, pastel pink and blue. He wore black to the beach, and so did I. We liked to play games no one else did. We told each other we liked how it felt when too much water got in your stomach, or in your lungs, whichever. It felt dangerous and we swam out in the ocean farther than either of us could stand. He was two inches taller than I. He wore my girly sunglasses and he gave me his favorite baseball cap. We went to pick up pizzas and he taught me how to play darts. I showed him the Smiths. There was Frame by Frame. Pink Floyd. A Perfect Circle. There was how we were friends, best friends and then one night, how we were more than that. Then, how it was over and how we never talk even though we were best friends.... How the last time we talked was the opening ceremony of the Olympics. 21 minutes. You think of all the things you could have said after the fact. 691,996 minutes later. There's more details, about everyone--but it's just sad.