The myth of permanence
Who are you? Your face seemed familiar till a minute ago. Did I pass you in the street? Or were you on the train next to me? Did a whiff of your perfume touch my nose? Or your words reverberate in my memory? Did you touch me to let me know that you are? Had we made plans? Plans to sit and watch the sunset or to disappear together? Why do you feel like I know you, yet I don’t? Perhaps you were someone I once knew but no longer. Maybe you’ve become orange and I remember you to be blue. What happened? Did they bully you? Or did your own monsters get to you?
I’m scared. Scared to get caught between orange and blue because the mixture is ugly. A dirty colour. Almost unpleasant. I fondle the memory whose living counterpart is now dead. I mourn. But I shall not stand at my door to welcome the new you.
Go away! Don’t touch me with that dirty shade. I’ll never be yours.