Thirty-seven years old, happily married, mother of two. And still holding one imaginary lover.
The first one is the best. Cherished and remolded over the years; pressed through playdoh; sketched stickfigure-esque again and again, never quite the same, but always mine imperfect.
Once upon a time, we told stories about love, abstract and cerebral, coded in longingcrack me, hear me, believe me, stay stay stayunbidden forbidden wordplay flirtation.
His skin is walking around somewhere without me, unregrettably. I keep the part of his soul I created, and let it sweep my hair back in any breeze.