Perfume and Regrets

I remember.

I do remember how much I've used various colors of colognes because of my stupid allergies that I intend to switch the last bottle with a new one and so it went on and on.

Each type of cologne that I picked had a name on it like: Happy Hour, Sunday Morning, Nine to mine and Spring break. They have different colors, different scents, different adventures hidden within--they're not special, I must admit.

But they only evoke one person that makes the word "special" an understatement.

I remember.

Yes I do remember that pink colored bottle named Happy Hour that I wore back three years ago.

I was preparing for the Street Dance Competition, and I put a lot of it to coat my  endless dripping sweats, when I felt warm hands encircling around my waist, it made my breathing stopped-- I was perplexed.

I needed to conceal my natural blush-on painted on both my cheeks, and bury my face with my long black face towel to hide my first flush with you.

Goodness, who wouldn't?

You fcking back-hugged me and rested your head with your breath touching the hollow of my neck, whispering "You smell good."

I remember.

That blue bottled Sunday Morning cologne that reminded me how much I hated Chemistry as I was listening to Mrs. Lutz's lectures about the Gas Laws and a whole lot of molecular conversions and such.

I remember how you borrowed my white tape and kept yelling at me for no fcking reason. I was annoyed, and irritated at that time. You even played the blue ribbon clip in my hair, and laughed about it countless times.

"Why do you keep on teasing Pau?" Mrs. Lutz asked you with a creepy grin on her face.

You smirked at me saying, "I have a crush on her ma'am, my apologies."

I remember.

The apple green bottled cologne named Spring  Break that I imperatively poured into my clothing when I finally transferred in tenth grade.

It was twilight.

The moment your friends dared you to asked me if how I was holding up. I smiled at you, though you were rubbing your hands off as if you're having panic attacks while talking to me.

How cute was your gaze that you can't even look at me.

To tell you honestly right now, I said I was fine back there, really. But I didn't say it didn't hurt.

I remember.

Above all, Nine to Mine purple colored bottle was beyond my favorite. It was your birthday, and the day after that, was my journalism.

How many Goodluck's and I Love You's have you let go on those two consecutive days, my young lad? I nearly ripped off my mouth for smiling, and giggling the whole fcking day because of your sugar-coated words and you, calling me names that elicits a meaning closer to a wife.

Though I didn't win, but your words made me feel like I did.

But now...

I don't fcking understand how I ended up being tortured with a counterfeit memory loss where I forgot the "supposed-to-be important days" of my life and remembered the ones who weren't worth remembering.

It's like a mandatory law of my memories; as long as there was You in it, my mind automatically saves it like a memory card even the simplest things that reminds me of you...again.

As long as there was You.

Such a pity. Such a regret.

You were right.

Like You said, I was the one that you like.

Yes you were right.

You like me, while you desperately love the other.

And my biggest regret young lad? We could've lost our egos, but we lost each other instead.