#im quite the opposite

Post its

The world was full of reminders, and he made sure it was abundantly populated. Every facet of her existence had been touched by him, somehow, and now she could see naught but him, every little piece of the world tied to some synapse in her memory, something to draw up something to remember him by, something to remind her of what he’d done, what he would do.

The blinds of the window made her think of the way he’d glance through them, two fingers slyly spreading the shades to create an opening, like he was in a Chandler novel. The orchids on her shelf the same colour he made her skin, a subtle purple shot through with a darker indigo. They bloomed as she had, and they’d fade just as powerfully as her skin had healed.

The problem was with all these reminders she wasn’t allowed to languish in them. There was no happy remembrance when every one of them was tinged with the subtle longing of the absent heart, knowing that he was away from her, a few miles south, a ways north. Wherever, it didn’t really matter, because he was not there. She was forced to bring him to mind by all the things he’d done, all the things that made him him, but none of them brought him any closer to her door.

And that, she considered, was the greatest tragedy of it all. It was the contradiction that created a tension who’s only payoff was the enormous, beautiful relief upon seeing him again, being able to revert back to the giddy girl and wrap her arms around his neck, swing about a bit if she was feeling particularly nubile. But, as with every other thing, that was not there for her, in this moment. 

Instead, she was mired in longing, lost pining for he who was not there. So why did every little reminder make her feel a little better? Why did every memory make her smile, an absent thought giving her a moment of happiness with a long draw as it receded? She wasn’t one to question life’s little generosities.