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.
If this isolation has any purpose, perhaps it is to force these hands to transcribe something. Anything. Unconnected or unrelated, but present. A frenzy of phrases tumbling around my feet. Come to order. I’ll pen them in.