Sometimes I stare out at the grey sky and feel like it’s enveloping me in a chilly embrace. The fog licks up at my cheeks and stings them with its damp coolness. I am all worn down like the threads in your favourite sweater- unraveling. I wear my ruby red lipstick and you kiss, pull, and bite at them until they’re pale and peeling. I look at myself like a ghost in the mirror, fading, fading fast. I smudge it on and there I am again, a rose in the mist.

I wonder about you; who are you when I’m not there? Do you wonder about me too? Do you contemplate the way I bite at my lips and the moments I dart my eyes away from yours? Or am I merely a passing fascination- just there when I’m there and gone when I’m not. Fading, fading, fading.

Memory is a funny thing- it was never really how we remember it. We see things how we want to see them and remember them in the sense we want them to be remembered. How will I be remembered? Will you remember me at all?


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