[and you write “things” because you have no idea what they are or their consistency, whether they are patterns or memories or active synapses, whatever they are, they’re wound up in tight and taut muscles, somewhere in your mind, a bundle of nerves, wires, just above the medulla, atop the spine. Within this, that “thing”, that trembles.]
[It’s a matter of discourse and detachment; of coming and going and returning to where “she” is no longer.]
[This thing that haunts with one face, your face; “she” has melted into everything you remind yourself of, even though it is hardly ever just “her”; The parts that were never “her”, but there is no one here, besides yourself, and the trembling, to note “otherwise”, in the sparse margin you left “her” in.]
[Even in “her”, you struggle with what you wish to remember solely. It is, perhaps, a cowardly act to believe when something is no longer there, that “she” was that one thing to need, to have here always.]
[In the magical moment of fascination, it is all possible, all can in deed be answered. At the precise moment of disbelief comes “belief”, fashioned by the shape of “her” unrecognizable before you and you ignore the monstrosity of it. Of course it is not too large. Of course “she” is all you ever wanted, every time you have met “her”.]
[Every thought is just a half thought, not a half consideration, or half important, but because each is extremely so, you are here to begin with, and these are more than thoughts.]
[You wonder briefly, if these places are shared, if “she” walk into this or that particular memory and can, even more so, remember the things that you see there, or, if “she” didn’t walk, or remember, would it still be the same room?]
[It is only a matter of time, as always, that the walls of “her” room, compress themselves into the one remaining corner, similar to an escape hatch, that “she” breathes out and through all that you denied of “her”. You peer into this corner and wonder if “she” can so easily strain through, what of the memory of “her”? There is nothing here to hold this with, save perhaps your teeth, and this.]
[You remember because some thing is short of time, short of breath, you believe it to be your body, it is not quite clear.]
[And when memory and the memory of a dream become interchangeable, when nothing is clear and all permeable, the distinctions you make of “her” can not be trusted to be of “her” exactly. For exactly this reason is the membrane thin, you’ve worn “her” to the point where “she” has lost distinction.]
[In your head you’re in a place that you do not want to be in but that is relatively the safest place. Looking at her brings so very a point to everywhere else. Not that you do not feel pain here.]
[At this point you stumble to just one thing, always when you have just nothing to say, when you’ve said all that had to be said except for this, this “thing”, that trembles.]