No, I am not devastated. I am no more torn to pieces than I have been, for nothing has changed. I am a braver woman now than I once was, a person somewhat closer to a whole, but my past drags behind me like a weighted tail.

If the slate were wiped clean, if we were suddenly seen with new eyes, what then? A foolish exercise. My hands on your face are the hands of a ghost–the ghost whose eyes first looked on you. Wine and time can only cause so much forgetting.

And yet–the cheek-burning burden of the one lost, the one never won, this, I am told, builds character. I can forever write to you–no, some crystal image–in a way the ones who love me can never wrench out. The old romantic poet to his lady from afar. No matter how close you get I want you closer. The musical chairs of a childish pining. But what more can I do? Repeat, repeat, repeat with more daring but no more success. 

Let’s say the exit sign to whom those monologues were all delivered has a name, and a voice for radio, and all those wires are covered in tan skin and light hair, and all the light poured through those eyes. Let’s just say affections are better left to a crowded house. But oh, how these hands ache. And in my folly, I breed memories for torment, and where I would feel your heated blood, I will douse myself in ink.