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Edited on Fri Jan-18-08 02:19 AM by NanceGreggs
Lost Love - In Pictures
He always pictured her in black and white.
Like a passport photo – devoid of expression, color or context, emotion or the capacity thereof.
No gray to confuse the soul; no nuance to muddy the memory. No hint of a smile that might intrigue. No shadow of discontent that might reflect distance; no glint in the eye that might suggest hope.
It wasn’t that she was easier to remember that way – but rather, or so he hoped, she was easier to forget.
But there were times …
nights when shadows played like gray ghosts upon the empty walls of an unfamiliar place,
when he recalled what it was like to reach across the canyon that exists between two halves of the same bed, and feel through his fingertips the rosy innocence of her blush, the violet of her passion, the amber of her warmth, and all of the many colors that she was in the confines of an embrace.
He always pictured her in black and white.
It wasn’t that she was easier to remember that way – but rather, or so he hoped, she was easier to forget.
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