The end of the affair.

All that is really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as out past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times over

Oscar Wilde



Weren’t you just somebody I slept with. In an hour when things seem less certain then they did at 7. I feel myself wounded, by myself and others. By passed words and words that lingered but were never said are haunting me. They asked me questions I wasn’t prepared to answer. In the process of the piece I forgot what is was about, and standing solid and still in the gallery there was some comfort in the fact that they didn’t fully understand its truth and you. The space hollow and empty projected my anxiety about what is happening to me. The lack of control I have over the new; how he seems to be with me always, while kept at a distance. Does he think about me. Yes? He is what I asked for, something new and fresh. But it’ll never be these, because I am still here, the old will always be in the bond. I will never vanish and my insecurities draw me back to the man on the hill. Oh wont you treat me for my disease. The black heart. My romance in empty like the caste that stands pink, cold and coffin like in the corner waiting to be read. I CAN’T CRY. I look at this object and without thought it is me, to its core. It drained me and I feel left and neglected to now smash up. Hoping to restore some kind of former glory. Where did that girl go, the one that seemed so sure of it all and herself. I wonder if our parallel lines will join and defer, like all the others. I say I can’t take another, but that is a big fat lie. Nothing is ever enough.