Yesterday I had to strain to remember her face, squinting into a stranger’s, looking for the curve of her full lips. The stranger did not notice, carried as she was by the evening swell of people coming from work, going to work, just going. Her voice is a distant whisper, as is her warmth, as is her fragrance that seeped into my lungs, blinded and nose-deadened as I am by smokes from the quickly cooling embers. What was that lotion she said she uses? Was it colour-blocking or colour-matching that she said was in vogue? I forget, only remembering that she said her favourite colour is yellow. I had been grasping vice-like onto memories of her and I barely felt the holds loosening, only now realizing that she has slipped like soft sand through my fingers, as I was busy daydreaming about others.
A gentle pulse rocks gently now, not the hearty throb of a rupture that rang in my ears, paralysing me with the anguish of wanting deeply, getting, and losing suddenly. I cannot seem to wonder about her any more, where she is and what she is doing, however hard I try. I am not heartless much: I can still feel, I can still burn. The silent goodbye that was overdue is now here: lulled by the mundane, death caught me unaware. By the time I had lifted up my ears from the stupor of daily life, something had been lost irreplaceably. Where is my regret, where is my guilt? White peace fills me and my soul bounces on cotton-wool soft clouds. I should not be this gay on the knowing that such a short sweet chapter was closed, and even this sombre thought is wilting just as fast. Fun is fun, done is done. Life stretches before us, waiting for our fantasies to come into it.