I saw you, a flickering brush stroke from an unsteady hand, unsure of your cautious steps as you slipped past me. I could almost feel the wild strands of your hair tickle my cheek. Your voice was as quiet as a lazy curtain breathing in the wind, when you asked me how I am, and so the waltz begins, a steady dance of masked glances, and drifting smiles passing through unspoken curiosities, two zealous lovers playing a game of charades.
I wonder what you thought of me, and where you keep those thoughts now. Are they a rusted penny at the bottom of a jar, or are they as clean and untamed as a spinning smoke filling your every room? I’m certain I’ve seen you so many times since then, but it’s only my eyes looking through the past.
My maddening guilt and forsaken truths are hidden behind the Mona Lisa-like smile in my last remnant of you. I have forgotten your face, remembering it only in this photograph. I cannot feel your touch, the warm whispers in my ear, or the howling sadness behind your eyes, and my dreams of you are an unfamiliar presence without a voice. I have crazed visions of some day being granted a second attempt at loving you. Would I do it for you, to tell you your passion is not in vain, or would I remember my cold loneliness, and do it for myself? Maybe we never have to tell the truth, and let our love be a thoughtless presence flooding the dreary recesses of our minds. Maybe we will be strangers to each other, and our flaws will be voids we fill with our redeemable regrets of the past.