I should cherish this.
Because you can't actually see what I feel when I remember the way you smelled in my arms, and how even the simplest of this pleasure is now denied to me. No matter how I might try to fight for it.
She's lost in me, like I'm lost in you, and you're just lost. It's a funny thought, that. Seems masochism comes in all shapes and sizes. Ours is simply more suited to abstraction. Like your words, my music, and her voice.
Her voice. It rang in an empty room, like your words echo in my empty head. They swelled into a crystal ball, and there she was, held in the palm of a ghost, arms extending from my eyes. She looked straight into mine, and saw moats, telling her not to cross.
She walked right along, my arms, her bridges. She looked into the mirror, and saw your face. She knew to leave, but she knew she couldn't.
And now, I sit enclosed, and as I play my music, she sings to me a soulful melody, short of Ti and Re. With every vibrato, she sheds a tear on the breath that bears my name, and I plunge myself deeper into heartbreak.