Bits and pieces of bits and pieces?

But even so, with the tiniest pieces of broken glass, I can still seem to conjure up things that I’ve always related to you both. Always, always, always. And maybe forever now.

I’m reminded of faint dried flowers, pressed between the yellowed, moth-eaten pages of a journal. Pages filled with daily accounts of memories, wishes, ambitions, tears, laughter, this and that, slightly torn in places, but otherwise intact. Some of the pages are dog-eared, creased. Were they of some importance before? Now, they seem like naught; trifling matters.

It’s like opening the fragile sheets with long, thin fingers, and rifling through the things that have been long forgotten; occasionally stopping on a well-remembered line or tracing over the faded, now non-existent lines. And the barely-there smell of something familiar, but foreign, coming from the pages.

There are reiterating shards and words, things that seem to be set on a loop, like a song playing on repeat.

Motif, motif, motif.

No matter what page I flip to, it’s always there, that one word or name or place or thing. It appears as if preoccupation has created the repetition of the same thing, over and over and over again. But the words don’t just fade out of existence. They jump out at me and claim my attention, like a thorn stuck in my thumb.

And if I run my fingers lightly over the breaking pages, I can feel the soft indents of where I’ve pressed my pen too hard. Occasionally there are some ink blots or a word that has been smeared with a hasty hand. It’s almost like reading a reverse Braille.

I open the pages and allow the book spine to crack: the flowers all fall out along with the words and I recollect absolutely everything. Some of the stems and lines have shattered on the ground, and I can do nothing but tenderly pick them up with too-rough fingers. They crackle under my touch and skitter away from my breath.

And I can touch the breaking petals, their beauty now mockingly held in the pale hues, reminiscent of their previous valor. It’s like someone had run their finger down the color value graph, lowered their saturation, and upped the contrast too much. Perhaps I will still be able to smell the season it once held. They’re nearly as paper-thin as the flypaper journal they’re held in. If I hold them to the light, there’s a possibility that the sun would go through their translucent veins.

I’m reminded of strong perfume, almost too overwhelming, akin to the scent of cantaloupes and honeydews crushed together with almonds and honeysuckle. I realize the smell is too saccharine and intoxicating, and I can taste it in the back of my throat each time I swallow. And I want to drink water to wash it away. It’s bitter and sweet.

It’s a light spritz on a square piece of white paper, sprayed to be held up to someone’s nose for a sniff. Or to be wafted airily into the world, only to disintegrate into nothingness. Too much of it, and already my head is spinning, and the things I see appear to blur and run together into a line of all the colors in the world.

I’m reminded of thin sticks of crayons with names like “Lilac” or “Canary Yellow” or “Periwinkle” or “Goldenrod.” They’re such fantastic names, but once I smear it onto a piece of off-white paper, I find out that it looks nothing like its name. It’s just another cheap imitation, and I’m disappointed. After all, it’s only wax with an extraordinary name. It’s never what I think it will be.

And no matter the name, all it takes is one clean snap and ultimately, it will exist as nothing more than a scrap of uselessness. Too short to be used, too long to be thrown away. All it really was from the beginning was a false image of something much more grandiose and stunning.

I’m reminded of an old photograph of a rose, in sepia tone. If I blink, for a split second, I believe I can almost see the vivid red that it had, but then the moment passes, and it is replaced by the same boring browning yellow. Almost an illusion—or perhaps it’s merely a hallucination.

The velvet appearance of the dew-tipped petals is enticing and deceiving. Thick silk of crushed foliage wet with clearness. There’s a peculiar shine coming from the dew, and in the background, it’s so blurred and fuzzy. Something existing in the middle of nothing.

I’m reminded of laundry coming straight out of the machine, light, clean, warm, clean smelling, crackling with static. It clings anxiously to my skin and I embrace it back, only to be snapped at with light sparks of reprimanding. I bury my face into its welcoming hold and feel my hair fall forward, seduced by its alluring semblance.

I’m reminded of swift hands, oddly cold for whatever reason, even in the dead of summer, running over delicate objects. They seem to hold their own definition of grace. Nothing topples over from their ginger touch, curious and alert. They can feel everything, and are aware of everything, anything. Their seeming softness is unnatural.

They cheat description, so frail-seeming, but capable of bringing upon death in the most terrible ways. From a glance, they seem near-innocent but that’s only because the dried blood has been long washed away.

And upon his (your other half) hands they’re rough and scarred, not anything like what they seem. They’re a contradiction in and out of themselves. I can lace my fingers through them, and they fit perfectly. I want to bring them up to my face. But I can’t. After all, they belong to neither me nor him. They belong to you now, and I know that.

It’s only then when I close my eyes when I realize that I’ve associated you two with things you have never associated yourselves with.

Perhaps, from the very beginning, I was fooling no one but myself with pleasant things to remember, when in actuality, there was nothing pleasant to remember at all….

There was never the small smirk on the corner of your mouth, or a glint in your eyes that told me you were laughing inside. There was no such thing as a playful insult, meant more to make him laugh than hurt.

And there was never that half-sneer on his mouth, wrinkled brow with disgust, and half-sly, half-obvious glance that he sent you afterwards. There was no retaliation for your playful insult, going along the line of joking.

Maybe all those things I’ve taught myself to associate the two of you with were just figments of my imagination: things I made up to make myself feel better.

Were those your eyes, so chillingly red with blood and bloodline limit, that I looked into not so long ago?

And his, too, so red with demon and anger?

I can’t remember. All of a sudden, my peeling pages and broken flora don’t seem real anymore. The sheets of paper are being reclaimed by time and the petals and veins and stems are turning to dust. Even that heavy fragrance of spring, summer, autumn, and winter is fading away.

But, once, when I placed my hand over his chest, I still felt the beating of his heart, strong and waiting. The feeling hasn’t gone away, hasn’t evaporated in the glinting sun.

Perhaps, unlike me, he doesn’t need the yellowed pages of imaginary journals, the slanted words falling off invisible lines, the scent of tears and sadness, the snapshots he never took. Perhaps just this beating of his heart is enough for him to keep sane and look forward forever.

Yet—I can’t be sure, because every day, it feels as if he’s losing something. It’s a small, insignificant thing that he’s losing, but bit by bit—fragment by fragment—he’s disappearing. I don’t want him to disappear. He’s still waiting. And he’s still trying.

He can’t be gone just yet. There’s still an empty spot that he needs you to fill. And it’s been growing bigger and bigger, ever since the day you left....

You’re still the binding glue that keeps him together.