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The story of you

It ended long before we met. Before you were even a glimpse of an idea, which now seems impossible, but is in fact the truth. You could never have been, to me, more than a distraction, a divergence and avoidance from me facing into what most people had always known. I begin to count. Dubhe, Merak, Phad, Megrez, Alioth, Mizar, Alkaid. As you withdrew from me, with a satisfied shudder, I turned to face the wall and held my breath. There was no more.

As a rule, I can't face the endless packing, but it's an activity that can barely be avoided with my proclivity towards departure, often dramatic and unplanned. I imagine the tea chests and torn bags that have littered hallways across the length of the isle. The seven stars. It’s hard how much I miss you. I miss you with an ache in my long bones and molars, that renders me inexplicably exhausted and perhaps aroused simultaneously. How can you miss someone that you have never met, never had a chance to be acquainted with, but still. Ursa Major. I should start at the beginning, the start of you and my exquisite dissolution.

I met you in a blaze of colour, the taste of the tangerine air hit my eyes before my mouth, you were a wonder to me. I’m often left without the words to convey the convolution of movements and sounds in my mind and today was no exception. I watch guardedly from under my brow, the way in which one would peer over glasses if deigning to wear them. I measure you with my eyes, taking in your dimensions, width and volume, running a mental finger around your circumference, trying to gauge you and interpret you. I am, as yet, invisible, and would remain so for the duration of our encounter. I could never quite form. I could never quite make a solid state for you, my effluvium evading you. Maybe that’s how you know that the person that breaches you, isn’t meant to be, not in any real way. Perhaps in passing. Alkaid, the start.

I pursued you in a way, usually reserved for fleeces and chalices. With a fervour and desperation that left me hollow and desultory. I had to have you, although there was no having you in any tangible sense. You were ambivalent at best, though I clung to the notion that you had arrived here, so I must count. As I ran my fingertips over your chest, I could already feel your departure, you were not even on loan, it was more temporary than that. I contented myself with breathing you in and committing you to memory. We would argue, as I always foresaw the end, even when in retrospect it was in its burgeoning infancy and still had road left to run. And run and ran I did. Alkaid, a long odyssey awaits me, but that lack of context constantly evaded me. It was always over for me.

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