I believed in what she could be.

I did it so much that she went a

Different way. Maybe away from herself.

Away from the way I apprehended her.

I idealised her, futurised her so much that

I couldn’t remember who she was,

And I realised that I hadn’t known her at all.

 

When she sat in front of me,

The empty bottle caressing her mouth,

I saw an image of her in my head.

Yet smiled at her, imagined her elsewhere,

Differently. She became invisible and I

Became heartless. Our narrative was cut in half.

I adored a face that I could never touch.

 

Cheeks that weren’t real. Cold skin. Lips without a voice.

And when her fingers landed on my shoulder

 I heard the gavel in my head. What had I

Done to this woman? The surreal shades

Would never surrender. And I would never

Be interested or courageous enough to shred the

 Images that weren’t there and commit to her.

4567 B

“Clothilde Beer” by Hans Makart (1840-1884)

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