text: For twenty-three years, this photo has held within it what I have lost; tantalising me with what could be, the fantasy guarded safely within the limbs of its silver frame. Every now and then, I get a glimpse back in time; back to when my ambivalence was obsession and my contempt was passion. Now and then he’ll smile with his eyes, or laugh with his heart, like he always used to. At these times, I think to myself: *There’s still a chance. I’m starting to recognise him again.* And when I’ve been reeled back in, I realise I’ve been fooled for the thousandth time - then I must fight to forgive myself for my flawed generosity. The hardest part is when you know it’s hopeless but yet you cling to dead memories, trying to revive them. Those pleasant times are trapped within your mind, destined to wither away with you - unless you live through them, as I have been, feeding them with your weakened spirit. They say that memories eventually fade, but although I cannot always recall things with precise clarity, they have simply manifested themselves in different ways. Have you not ever been stopped in your tracks, for you’ve picked up on a familiar scent which upon inhaling, travels through the intricacies of your soul with a warm familiarity, yet you can’t quite recognise it? Have you never felt the wind weave its way through your hair, caress your face, and you know you’ve been touched so gently before, but you wonder: by whom other than the soft breath of the wind? These memories hold me hostage to my happiness: I must let them go to be free. I know at the point where I have been living entirely within my mind that something is wrong. I can no longer wait for him to return - his body lives here, a parasite, full of blood and hunger and nothing else. *He*, however, left a long time ago. Maybe I can find him embodied within another. Or maybe I never will - then perhaps I might finally surrender... completely lose myself in these thoughts which provide me nothing but sweet agony. See, some nights I dream of past times. In my denial of what is, I find my mind intertwined with dreams and reality, creating a blur between the two. At these times, I near go mad as I try to discern the two worlds, and I go even madder when the mist slowly disappears and I find myself here again. For my own wellbeing, I must finally move on. Sever my heart strings from all which he has tainted. I must leave his side. Find my own place. Find my own life. I must destroy every possession he has gifted me, and every possession which reminds me of him. The trinkets and perfume he gave me. The elegant, silver heels I wore on our first anniversary. The photo I hated because it emphasised the ugly shape of my chin (to which he would remark that I was not just my chin, but a delicate ensemble of all things beautiful and joyous). The birthday cards from those first few years in which he wrote me enchanting poems...he had such a way with words... where has he gone? Oh, here I am, grasping at the ghost he left behind, surprised that my hands are falling right through. But if doing so brings me such pleasure, is it really such a sin to indulge in innocent memories? I am old. My life nears an end. Why am I wasting my energy trying to tear myself apart? All I wish for is *him*, and he exists only in my mind now; there’s no need to be anywhere else.