"Our fate is to die before the symbols of our affection." I tell myself, in an effort to let go in a more heroic fashion. Of course I mean a symbolic death, but sometimes it hurts less to be dramatic.



I sat on her sofa, her boyfriend not in the scene. I looked through her door way--her gaze locked into her laptop.



I asked her how on earth she could have shoes on, as that music played, and I immediately arose from the sofa and began to slide across her hard wood floor. She soon followed.



I do not know if she was actually happy. I have been through enough of these iterations to know that we find a way to drink our tonic notions of completeness.



But she took a pillow. She put it on the ground, took some paces back. She charged at the pillow full speed, gaining momentum, taking a leap, sliding across the floor. She was amazing.



And I want to make something perfectly clear--I do not see her as a damsel as much as I see her as my hero, in wait. Her eyes, fully realized, can show me things I could never conceive.



Her, alive, with me, sliding across her living room floor.



" Do you understand we choose our symbols?" I tell myself, in hindsight.



"That beauty's horror is that it brings us to the real life? That our souls must be bared?"



And as I sit here, in this cafe, trying to transmute some greater memory from recollection, incidentally exchanging too intense of eye glances at people in my vicinity, maybe causing them to feel discomfort, making them get up and leave, I search, within myself, for a way to a sense of reconcilation.



The secret misguided dangling of all I'd let myself believe I wanted attached to her name... I plead with myself to reconsider.