At times I feel her absence is her presence. As if she is the void that fills me up. I only feel complete when her memories are with me. And like the earth which is seventy percent water.
I am merely a “thirty percent” self.
She is the poetry of my life.She exists and yet she is invisible. Like air. Like a thought. Like the soul.
She is the poet in my soul.
I am absent in her life. In her thought. In her plans. I am not even a memory of a childhood scar. Nor am I the laughter at the end of a joke.
Her sense of humor is silent. My wounds are autistic.
Life is an ellipsis of a mirage.
And hope –the catharsis of the violent ocean.
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