Echoes.
You swirl in me like a forgotten dream, like a photograph confused, cursed out by the folds in your wallet and made blank again as though parts were left undeveloped. I suppose that’s why I still write about you. I have to know, to find out for myself what the details were, the incidences, the stories that lead us to this.
I took you in my arms, and I told you that I loved you.
There’s this echo sometimes, if I stand in the right place, though I suppose one could call it the wrong place. The voice that comes back to me when I scream at the walls sounds strange, distorted, and I wonder if it is my own or some kind of destiny telling me where to go. It’s far too easy to ignore, and assume something else entirely. Somebody calling me from afar. Maybe it is myself in the past, warning me to get out while I still can.
So my mind is everywhere. I think of you when I’m in clothing stores, and how you’d laugh and voice doubts that the clothes would fit me. They did. You’ll never know, but they did. Sometimes. On the days when my heart felt the most full they stuck in the wrong places, clung to parts of me and swung away from others in the most annoying way; they remind me of you those times, and the rest of the time too. The walls. It’s like they conceal something, some colossal portrait of your face, bearing down on me.
