Sunday, September 21, 2014


She didn't live with him, she never did. He knew that she could easily be a segment of his imagination. NO: she is just an imagined temporary homeland, a mirage of a woman that only exists within the binaries of his own mind, and self.
She never lived with him, in fact, he hardly felt her presence, he only knew her voice and her laughter which he became so accustomed to. Her image, pixelated through a screen on an old machine that he still claimed his.
The same image, saved, and rehashed in so many different ways on his devices. Her with an orange shirt, her smiling, swimming, laughing, kissing the screen, driving, eating, frowning, and that one with her innocent eyes looking at him, staring back at his hunger.
She doesn't live with him, yet she manages to take over everything. She takes over his sofa, where he sat for hours speaking to her wired image, and voice. His bed smells of her. How? he keeps asking himself, that smell he knows so little off. The bed that longed for her, but never touched her, smells of her.
His knife, that he proudly used once trying to master a dish she knew how to make , is now tempted to call her, and ask her for guidance. His blue shirt, that she once loved, is now hers. Everytime he wears it, he remembers her exaggerated flattery. He will not wear that shirt anymore.
He speaks to himself, the self that he often ignores, and tells him that he tried, and she didn't. He wanted, but she left. He tries to convince him, debates him, angry at him he sometimes screams. But the self just keeps quite, he knows that his attempts are futile, that his scenarios are lies, that his self knows that he gave her no choice, he knows it, but fights him with all the strength he knows he has.
He fights for his own as her memory slowly becomes his life.

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