I find myself talking to ghosts, the expectation of response does not exist. It isn’t the same feeling as being ignored, not anymore, since I know that she reads the words and judges not what I say.
She never has.
So I continue to write the thoughts and reflections that come to me in the middle of the night, joy and pain; light or dark. I can close my eyes and see her reading them; crooked smile and dark eyes shining. A guilty pleasure reaching to her from the past who has never truly let go of the dream they once shared.
I write, yet I expect nothing. I crave her touch even years later; images never truly faded over time come to me in my sleep. Those who have truly marked me hold this place of honor, for with each one there was something that drew me. Their intelligence, their charm, their curiosity … she held them all within the palm of her hand, yet had the weakness of self doubt holding her back.
Now she lives in a far away place, living a life of her choosing. Even now she is free in spite of conforming to societies needs, and even now I still miss her.
Now I live in this far away place and my mind still dwells within her dark eyes, trapped forever in her smile.
