The Memory Ruin

She was visiting the ruins for the first time since the death of her dream. It was so vague and yet she feels like it died upon her lips. Her lips. They were the colour of unspoken memories. Those memories a mixture of the sadness in her eyes and the cynical lines around them. That was their colour yes. The ruins looked like ethereal ghosts now as she touched them with her gaze. Standing mute with their decaying footprints on the edge of the world. At least the only world that she had ever known. But it was far-away now. The world. Gone like an absentee parent. Like adolescence. Like the first kiss she doesn’t remember. It only existed now, looming like the place between death and salvation, but not quite. What were his words again? Yes, she remembers he had spoken like the void that filled her now. His voice was like the shadows of empty tins that clanged but were never heard or seen. She could not even see his voice anymore, she could not even picture it in her mind’s eye. Because her mind was an abstract thing now. An abstract, metaphysical, non-existent thing ,unlike him. He was never non-existent for her. He was her blue vein. The one that runs deepest. The poisoned one. The fatal bleed. And God knows he had bled her to a million deaths already. Always blue. The blood was always blue.

She always sought the ruins when he bled her like that. Though the ocean reminded her of his blueness, his vile beauty. With those eyes of his, like the azure horizon. A pale thing of immense splendor almost pagan in their shamelessness. she remembers the blueness now like a vague and trivial detail. Those colours of humanity are long gone. All that exists is this weightless temerity. The vaccum has turned inwards and echoes the weightlessness. She holds the sounds of her mourning in her mouth like a pregnant mother, but like an aborted anomaly they are never heard. She is peaceful like the insane are. With no ties of kinship to man or beast anymore. Their significance long lost in the webs of her inner void.

She remembers the faint essence of prayer. The sweet bitterness in her mouth ,every time she took his name before the travesty of her supreme illusion. Illusions, how do they exist with the non-existent? How do they create their identity with the salt of nothingness? She thinks about it. About the salt of her nothingness. Does she even care now? Care. What does it mean? Nothing in the non-existing specter of her memories. And all because…..She Loved. He Lost. She died