journal · prose


This city howls your name. Your laughter is buried within the fibers of its foundations, your fingerprints mark every alley. You gave it meaning, brought it color, gave it life. You made this place a home, and now that you are gone it has all become dead space. Stale with old memories of us, hollow with the flights of my fantasy, a flimsy and futile weapon versus the biting shock of reality and bitter weathering of time. I begin to wonder what was real, if any of it was. I wonder if you, like me, truly believe something is real because you want it so badly. But I must digress, because no matter how much I divert back to my memories of you, or wonder what was or wasn’t real, or believe in the best or the worst of us, there will never be an us, a we, again. And that is what is missing here. That is what made this city real. If only I could go somewhere new…

But there is nowhere else to go.


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