a constant runaway’s remembrance

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I lit the fire, curled up with my book, lost in a hurricane of thought, there was still a monster in my house, and, in a fragment of time that had, perhaps, been snipped out of my reality, I was in love with the one that took me to the sea, and drowned me. From the moment I saw her, the prophecy became a reality, because that which takes the form of an angel becomes itself an angel. she was beautiful, she was magical, she was a nightmare within a dream. 
And the best part? Her eyes weren’t the windows to her soul, they were the doors into mine.
 
Her face, her words, and the sound of her every trigger, they were haunting me: standing behind me, present and yet invisible.
Our story, it wasn’t like any other.There had been betrayal in it, I knew, and loss, and time. The thought of having went through that made it all the more difficult to attempt any form of reality in my head; She was like a wound beneath an old bandage and I had grown more used to the bandage. She no longer served her purpose, and I never came to know what was mine.
 
The fireplace was almost dark now, with only the deep red glow of embers in the hearth to mark that it had once been burning, once had given light.
 
That was when i saw her coming, she walked like the last touch of a sunset, at the end of the world. 
Her hands, ever so delicate, formed a series of nightmares, tearing at a nightmare. 
I didn’t know how to begin reacting to her, how to conjure a single thought, I was lost and maybe found, I could never tell the difference.
We sat, the two of us, next to each other, and we could have been continents away.
She spoke, and as she struggled to continue, I seemed to hear nothing but silence, it was louder than words could have ever been. 
She said nothing. 
That was how I walked out, feeling liberated, but mostly, sad. 
Because, if i had stayed, It would have not killed me, it would have destroyed me. Dissolved me. I wouldn’t die, but if I stayed for too long, after a while only a little of me would exist, everywhere all spread out. 
And that’s not a good thing. 
Never enough of me all together in one place, there wouldn’t be anything left that would think of itself as any form of me i’ve ever known. 
No point of view any longer, because I’d be an infinite sequence of every view and point. I would exist through non existing, it would be like watching pieces of myself float across a meadow always there but never again, me. A mess of thoughts, unable to decipher between the person, I knew and the one colliding my minds together in war.
 
And so i left, I was happy, I was devastated, I was confused, and then the confusion was replaced by a smile, as if the world had just reconfigured itself into a form that finally, made sense. 
 
Decades later, when we meet again, in a sweet serendipitous moment, I won’t remember how badly I hurt her, or how harshly I tore at her, and most excruciatingly, how that last kiss felt.
Its sad that I won’t remember, but I guess its easier that way.
What happens to memories when they are forgotten? Where do they go after living in our heads? Shadows waiting to be called.
 
So we lay our past selves to sleep, burn them to ashes and scatter them at sea, we serenade the moments, the hours and the days, because, in that split second, as I liberate her of me, my heart will start to sing, of a ghost-memory, a phantom moment, a shaky reflection in the pool of remembrance.
I will know how it would have felt when I, the scavenger took her heart. 
How it felt when my hunger, tore into her chest and snatched out her pulsing core, still pumping, I devoured it to get at what was hidden inside.

I somehow know how that felt, as if it was truly a part of my life, of my death.
And then the memory snips, and rips, ever so neatly, and I, forget again how somehow, with her in my arms it was as if I seemed to hold mountains, babysit hurricanes and I lay demons to sleep, in the space of a single breath.

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4 thoughts on “a constant runaway’s remembrance

    • Wow, thank you so much. I can never be convinced, that my writings or better yet my “word collaboration” actually connect with people. to hear you say that is simply music to my heart.

      • Writing is a bit like that, eh? You never quite know you’re understood, until you are. I think, especially in today’s world it’s so important that we encourage one another as writers. I dread the thought of a future without writers, poets, artists, musicians, and dreamers. I doubt the world needs more engineers and scientists.

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