Without

She doesn’t call anymore. I have convinced myself that it is alright, also, that it is a perfect agreement for her to not call as much as she would normally. But now, she never calls again. She puts me at a distance like a disease. She gives us an assumed friendship, a strange way of pretending that there is something to hold unto that is a lie. I’m not sad about this but indifferent. I enjoy using her as a good oak gone bad when I write. This, I am happy about.

She doesn’t call anymore. In a rare undertone, I believe we were never friends because of what we have become and I am happy about this revelation. In converse, she speaks as though I am not there and I reply with a caution, an unwanted affection I am proud of. This, I am happy about.

I think sour love has benefits like the wind it blows but it destroys. Like the sea, it calms yet kills. Duality of purpose.

 Life has this rare quality too: the ability of us to do ‘with’ and ‘without’.

She will always be blown by the wind to the sea as I stand watching her words, memories drown holding unto nothing yet feeling something.