She haunts the frequencies now, compressed into pixels that bear no resemblance to her weight against my ribs. One thousand miles collapse into glass, yet expand infinite when I press my palm to the screen at three am, willing warmth from cold circuitry.
This is a true story. Or true enough, which is all truth ever manages to be. I watched it unfold like a slow-motion car crash filmed through vaseline, beautiful and grotesque in equal measure
There’s a hunger that lives only in absence, in the pause between your steps, in the untouched half of the pillow where I bury my face and inhale whatever’s left of you, your perfume decaying into something sweeter, sadder, more mine the longer you stay away