I am tired of writing of you as if you were an old polaroid photo from 1975.
The kind that fades slowly and turns yellow in an old trunk.
The kind taken of a happy sad girl laughing at her youth which she has kept in a glass bottle ever since she was 13.
That is how I picture you – frozen bittersweet melancholia giggles.
You are my dark little secret, and something tells me a part of you always will be.
But, you are real.
So very real.
In fact, you are the only thing that is real to me anymore.
You are more than what I write of.
You are more than anything.
What I write of is fiction.
The dreams I have of us entangled.
Fiction. Sadly. Fiction.
I will never stop the imagination
the creation
of a “banana pancake good morning” love with you.
Never.
But, what I wrote of was fiction.
Perhaps. Perhaps we just need to change the genre.