Tuesday, 2 February 2010


I find you hard to write. It is as if you are too... real. Or too close. Or too much a part of me.
You ask me for a picture - why is it I cannot even do that? I know you too well, I think. Trying to get you down onto paper seems an interminable task. Maybe I could condense you into a cartoon. I think I could. I think, maybe a poem would do as well...

I need to stop thinking of you as a whole and take only one aspect. Your humour. Your image. Your attitude.

You pass me in a hurry and I know exactly where you are going, what you are doing. I think living with someone makes them hard to view from a distance. They're too near all the time.

You should go away on holiday. I did not make use of the time when you went last time, but if you went again, maybe I would. Maybe then I would sit down and think about you. Maybe then I could separate the memories and knowledge of you a little and change you into letters that form words that form... a piece. Finished. Incomplete, maybe, but finished.

And maybe I could make you happy with that...

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