Your past I shall be. And You, mine.

Three years later. a new girl sits cross-legged on your bed. She tastes like a different flavor of bubblegum than you are used to. She opens up a book that you had to read in high school, and a folded picture of us falls out of chapter three. Now there are two unfinished stories resting in her lap.
Inevitably, she asks and you tell her.

You say: I dated her a while back.
You don't say: Sometimes, when I'm holding you. I imagine the smell of her vanilla perfume.
You say: She was younger than me.
You don't say: The sixteen summers in her bones warmed the eighteen winters my skin has weathered.
You say: We didn't work out.
You don't say: It was all the things I could ever work on and never get bored of.
You say: It's over now.
You don't say: But it was everything then.

For somethings are better left unsaid.