and there is a strange pain whre my neck meets my back on the left side.

he isnt going to call me

or write me

or contact me for that matter.

it isnt a big deal i suppose.

in fact when i say it out loud, it doesnt bother me at all.

its jsut, the uncertainty that drives me wild.

those moments when i think he might call, or might eb thinking of me, thsoe are the ones that slowly grate away at my brain, make my head ache.

i am used to things beng fleeting, i never shoul dhave tried to assure myself that it wasnt, it just made it more difficult.

when my eyes close i cant remember it as well

my skin is slowly losing the imprint, the memory of the sensations, my ears are forgetting the voice, my eyes the exact lines of the face.

it fades away slowly, like a relative you rarely see, or a painting you saw and tried to remember but couldnt quite.

I try so hard to keep the memory and the thoguths and emotions fresh that it makes them fade faster. So often did i reopen teh box to see it again feel it again that it ebgan to escape peice by peice. first i didnt feel quite teh same inside when i thoguth about it, secon di coudlnt quite remember the words that captivated me so, then the order of minor event sin covnersation, then the exact trails on my skin, the image of his face, then the sounds, the textures, till it all became a dullhaze of a memory with generalizations and assumption. it became a memory not an experience. no longe rsomething that would make me curl up on the couch and close my eyes. It no longer took my brainhostage, isntead it is only called apon when i strain for it.

it is fleeting, like everything else, soemthing i can grasp for a while then it slips through my figners, what it hgouth was a rock is only a clump of dirt, and when i squeeze to hard it breaks away.

somehow i feel more free, if not saddened by it. at least now it is something real and not jsut a fantasy, if it were a fantasy it wouldnt behave like a memory, like evrything else in my mind and life does