he had forgotten her. every time she realized this it startled her, and that sense of surprise wouldn't go away. when this happened, she felt her chest collapse in on itself. like it couldn't hold the weight anymore and it wanted some organic peace. after a few minutes, it seemed to reassemble when she focused on anything that didn't involve emotions. even when her thoughts drifted, it still felt like a different part of her body ached at every moment he wasn't thinking about her. which was always.

first, her hipbones. shaking and ready to crumble to dust. waiting for restless hands. then her chest seemed to scream out for him. feeling a heavy organ weighing down her lightness. she missed the way it felt to have a body falling into her, and hands that cut through the flesh and into a deeper part of her body. one she couldn't define. but it wasn't all blood vessels, skin tissues, scars, and cells. it was vast and unnameable and it was the true definition of being alive. she wanted to touch it the same way that he could. when the sky became light scarlet and deep blues and it trembled from its own beauty. the sheets felt like an ocean and she was drowning into the ocean called Lover. and she didn't care.

in her own mind, he became a demi-god. she always thought that they existed. just casually existing in human bodies, marveling at themselves and the power they held over humans. defying dimensions and distorting feelings. because the way he makes me feel, she thought, he pushes the boundaries between sadness and pain and longing. it transformed into a shaking core of purity. she lightly pressed a finger in-between her small breasts. it was right there, that sphere that he planted. it was right next to her heart, and slowly engulfing it in white fragility.

the cancer on her wrists, insides of her lungs, and in her throat seemed to echo as she layed on her bed. packs of cigarettes thrown carelessly on the floor. an old, empty bottle of vodka by a stack of books and her glasses. then, there were those faint and mocking lines that she traced carefully. smirking to herself, i'm just like them. the teenage boys and girls who thought it was a proper outlet for attention. she thought it was art. most people didn't like it, so she hid it. partly out of shame for her inexperience and for fear of what others would say for ruining a canvas.

i wonder if people get tired of me speaking in metaphors? she thought to herself as she grabbed onto her pillow as if holding it for dear life. so, she was dying. nothing else had changed. everyone died, and out of all those philosophers she read the facts were ingrained into her mind. nietzsche pestering her about the uselessness of it all, sartre moaning about existence, and sometimes she wanted to wring their necks.

she gathered her thoughts and then glanced over at her large stack of poetry books. and that romanticist inside of you, it still seems to hold on. and it wants to murder those philosophers, and drape them in flowers. flowers and graveyards and angel statues and the moon and sun shining brilliantly.

do you disappear when everyone stops thinking about you? she wondered. and as she stood up to grab a book, she paused to glance at the title. "paradise lost". milton. thumbing through the pages with anxiety. would it be a haven to me? would it make me happy?

with downcast eyes, realizing that she had already been wiped from memory, she shook her head.
do deities cry?

the teardrops were tarnishing the ink.
she stroked her eyelashes.
no, she breathed softly. but mortals do.