[untitled]

"Would you believe me if I said I miss you?


I look and hope to find traces of your coming by, but my wait is insatiable longing, and is unfruitful at that.


I should not be missing you, for you are not mine to miss. If I missed you, I missed a technicolor image of you, and not really you. For I have no reckoning of you save for my fantasies. And that, I forced myself to fantasise, to be attracted, to break the trust, to indulge with you. You are not that attractive a man. I made up an image of you, so that I would have a rescuer of a man, that I actually hope I will never have to call upon.


I write this, and I no longer miss you, no longer look out for your traces, your sights and sounds, your name. Instead, I abide afloat as is, because I hope I will not actually go there, to where you are, for you, or rather the image of you, is false and of my weakness, and that I will take to my bed and bury there with the other many men."