It is late, on the eve of my passing birth given day and my mind begins to race: the sun has long since fallen beneath the horizon of concrete and steel, which has become the wonderland of my barren life. The time will turn in mere moments and I will be yet again another step closer to the doom of aging, I am alone, my life feels so incomplete in this moment of moments, and we live so long and accomplish so little.
His breath lingers in the room, bitter, sweet, breath. His words with the air wafting through the cracks in the floor boards seeping through, curling and dancing like a visible smoke that fills a room with stale and forgotten sounds. My own hands reaching for the deformed reminiscence. I hear him
"Do not grasp at that which can never be held"
Bitterness reaches the back of my throat as my wanting peeks and tears flood my vision.
"see through the smoke and mirrors, the illusions your own deception"
When he first left I would see him everywhere, taxi cabs, store windows, in people faces as they walked down streets in winter. His hair would find it's way into my clothes, his smell filling my nose randomly with happy emotion. I was never afraid of his lurking memory. It brought me comfort to know he was still with me. I became scared only when he stopped, when I began to forget his face, his smell faded, his green hairs grown into my own, when he failed to be there in the window and all that was left was a reflection of a man who had grown up with out one.