Memories; discrete pockets of feeling and physical sensation, intense thought, effervesce through the past and break on the surface of this flat, dull present. I see you and am reminded of everything I was when we were last together; all the passion and the work and the agony. You remind me of what I might have become, and everything they've taken.
You look at me when I give you my ideas. Truly look at me; you always liked the content of my mind. In spite of yourself. I like that you try to taste what I'm saying. I'm swollen with ideas, with nowhere to deliver them.
I've thought about taking a taxi to your rooms. Knocking on the door and you letting me in. But I can't bear to be reminded of everything I will never have. I will never have him. And you are not mine, either. I may feel your skin, see your smile, taste your mouth. But then I return to the plodding, heavy, lifeless self.
I can't stand to see what I am in the mirror. I tried to keep myself whole, but they took all the best parts and I've tried to put things back in their places, sticking the edges down with glue and hoping it will hold.
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