No subject, no photo

And then he comes to me looking for strength. It was always him, it's always been his job to be optimistic and strong. He would always call, cheer people up, talk, comfort them. Now he's coming to me for optimism. For comfort. Now it's him who needs to hear that all will be fine. And my heart breaks seeing him like that.

It will be, eventually, I'm sure of that. Maybe I'm silly in my childish faith, but there is just no other option.

Everybody's asleep. I can cry now. Tomorrow we need all the strength to comfort her.

We spin and turn, I'm in your arms and before I realise you lift me high above the crowd and spin me around and around and around. I can't sit still you say and I just smile. Somewhere in between I let go, I let feel. It's surprising, exhilarating, liberating. Intoxicating. Tempting.

'Your hands are cold'. If I was a verb I would be waiting.

Morning brings back reality with its greyscale and bitterness. Snow underneath my feet. I watch my steps.

Deja vu

Why do you keep coming back, always, continuously, stubbornly; your face, your smile, your hands, the smell of that summer, and of the following summer. Why are you still haunting me - it's not even you, I know, it's only some vision of you - cause you’re not there anymore, you’re not even you anymore. And I'm not me anymore either, not that me that you once knew.

And yet, in my mind, you’re still there and I’m still there, only wiser. And all that is happening again. What wouldn’t I do now to make it real, what would I do?

Your face on that photo, your voice in my dream, and I’m yet again finding myself in an empty space, with eyes empty and heart empty, yet aching.

This is silly, she would say, it’s only a sign how emotionally immature she is, that girl from Paris at sunset, who never felt anything like that ever again since he was gone. This is me, emotionally immature, never been able to feel anything like that ever since you were gone.