If I saw you again, I wouldn’t care about things that were so petty, like whose plates and cutlery lay idle in the sink...who didn’t take out the *******...who forgot to water the plants, or who forgot to do this or that.
The only sounds I hear now are our splintered voices down the phone. Every night. They grow. They break. They hover, they drift ever-so, and they try to fade. But somehow, they are always there. Lingering. Over and over again.
And as I look out at the morning’s rusty dream of dawn, a thin film of moisture condensing on the windscreen, I pause.
It isn’t the first time I’ve tried to take a film noir journey through my subconscious.
It isn’t the first time I’ve tried to pull moments and memories together to make some utter sense of what’s happening. My thoughts seem to always unravel themselves. And I struggle with them. They don’t effortlessly slot together anymore.
I often think to myself: isn't it funny how our impression of time changes? God, reflecting back on a fading memory now seems livelier than life itself.
Now I sit here, thinking all these sad and strange thoughts – that everything – time, work, effort, money, affection – are moments that will, one day, crumble and fade – that they won’t be there forever in the physical world.
Because everything we had once cherished with such love, I still remember. Still.
