we are not finished

What to say?
I can say that I died that night. I can tell you that you were not there, that my lover was not there, that He was not there, that they were not there. I can say that I was utterly alone, utterly desperate, that no-one heard my pleas, and when I cried to the Heavens, there was no reply.

I can tell you that my soul burnt that night in a bout of pain like flames in my spine and in my mind.

And yet...
There are no words to wholly express it.

Weak. Dead inside. A desperate scramble to feel again. A willingness to be used, just to pretend that someone cared. A willingness to be used turned into a willingness to use. And so it came to be, a system of symbiotic relationships like so many others, physical for emotion, until the other en avait marre of emotion and was driven away. Used and using, just to live.

Eras passed. Using, using, using. Sucking life, comme un vampire. I don't forget their faces. They're engraved in my mind. I won't forget their faces. As much as I would like to, I cannot. To forget would be to lose a part of myself.

---

Eras passed. Use became addiction and need. A need to feel and love and exist.

Then, him. A wicked grin.  A wicked gleam in his eyes. Music and need, passion and desire, user and used. He was like her, her equal.

They dove in headlong and clung to eachother as two shipwreck survivors in the sea. A connection, a mistake, a misunderstanding, a dire need, a desire to stop sucking life, to stop using.

She can remember everything. His smile, his voice. The way the morning light shone through the window, hitting his face. The smell of his cigarettes, the joints as well. The spark of light in the dark just before he'd light up.

They lived like that for some time, not working, not trying. Just being. Then love was out of the picture, and so was he.

She thought, months afterwards, that they were still not finished. That something was still in the future for them. But they just faded.

They don't see eachother much anymore. Passing in the street, a brief "hello, how are you" as acquaintances do, like the connection never existed.

She doesn't miss him, doesn't use anymore, isn't used, no longer searches to feel or to love or to exist.

She doesn't miss him, just wonders where things stopped. Things didn't go wrong, just ended.

---

[But sometimes, I still have cigarette dreams.]