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She looks at you and you look at her, though her eyes are closed. There is nothing else in the world and she is everything that has ever existed. You scream, something you’ve never allowed yourself to do before. You miss your dreams, talking to him. You miss the safety. Here, you watch as she walks towards her and you want to crawl out, force yourself to proper reality but you can not. You are just a memory, not even the full soul. You are an imprint left on a body, the rest of the thing still dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. She is gone and she will never return, at least not in the way that she ever would be again. You, however, remain, resting in the skull of the thing that you never allowed to be in your body. Or maybe you did, maybe you did allow her the moment your lips touched that thing’s, when you were too young to ever understand what was happening.
But she, the thing, the person, the monster or whatever it is she may be, kisses her. You know that deep down, that was you. You can control more than the thing’s dream, you think, and you shake so violently that you hope some movement will come about but nothing happens. It’s a quick peck, something that barely counts as a kiss, but you cherish the feeling of your lips touching. Because they are your lips still, not hers. That is the shape your lip is, full and strongly indented instead of the curves of its lips. It’s Not its. It will never be its and as much as you love it, her, you don’t know, you hate her more right now.
Let me go, you want to scream out, but the lips are not yours to control. You got but a mere second and you do not know if that even was you. You do not know why you would kiss her but you do not know why she would do it either. She does not know her, she does not know the feeling of her hands around her throat or the feeling of carving open one’s skull to get to the other to safety.
You are angry at her, you realize, not just for taking your body, but for taking your person, your only reason.
No. She does not know how it feels to love one such as her. She is a vision, you think, even in this garish alabaster. She is a vision and there is nothing else you want than to be hers again.
But were you ever hers? Are you anyone’s except your own wretched self? You are sickened at the thought of not belonging to her, this echo in the back of someone else’s mind should belong to her.
She is yours. You know that in a way that you have never known anything else before. She is yours and she always has been. She, of course, could never want to have anything to do with you after all that you have done. You, of course, or whatever remains of you, would forgive her for anything.