The Point Of Life.

prologue

I’m looking down at a picture of us from when you were still pure. I wander down the lonely streets of this pointless little town and I feel so secluded from my own emotions. I did this to myself.

I still clutch onto the memory of you sleeping on my brand new pearl white sheets as I counted your breaths, slowly I began to imagine that with each exhale you were releasing all the breaths you had shared with everyone toxic in your life and so you spewed them out of your body in a shortly disappearing burst of black dust and you inhaled me instead. You replaced all your nostalgia with him and you instead chose to live on my soul. In an ironic way I’m now living off my own nostalgia of you.

I told you I would be good for you from day one, you just didn’t listen to me.

When I slowly memorized your breathing sequences, insuring that you were still breathing, I began to analyse your face. Not in the usual cryptic way that let’s say an English graduate might analyse a book from the 1920’s but analyse the dust on your eyelashes in a way that slowly meant they started to look like stars in a distant galaxy, that no matter how hard I tried, I just could not grasp. Your soft curled black hair was covering your ears and so I watched as with every breath each strand of hair would move. I guess that’s how the universe found me before I found it.