I miss you: my best friend. I miss your warmth, and your everlasting endurance of cold-feet-in-bed. I miss our car ‘singing’, late at night as we drove back home. I miss the funny faces you can pull, favourably on random sent pictures during the day. I miss your scent, your touch. I miss you dancing to music I don’t particularly enjoy at 7:30 in the morning. I miss your voice, with its tired sound, as you’re about to fall asleep. I miss your laugh, your smile, your eyes. I miss your kisses, whose memory of has slowly been fading. I miss you. Even if you don’t miss me at all.
Another goodbye, and another one. In an attempt to stabilise myself I drank a dead-sea-amount of wine in the hope it’d kill all emotions. Unfortunately it only left me dazed, confused, and swept off my feet – but not the good kind. More the hugging the toilet kind.
So I found myself in a state of self pity on the bathroom floor, with still the faint hope to hear you whisper it would be alright. But I was there and you are so far away. No amount of screaming would make you listen to me. Long distance phone calls are still long distance – and most of the time done in drunken spirits.
I peeled myself off the floor when I felt brave enough to shed my skin, and concur the massive hangover alone. Right in that moment I decide: I will ride my bike today, because I’m so Dutch, and all you are is so far away.
“When we define the Photograph as a motionless image, this does not mean only that the figures it represents do not move; it means that they do not emerge, do not leave: they are anesthetized and fastened down, like butterflies.”
– Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography
A quote I slowly repeat to myself as a mantra, as I flick through old pictures, and dream of a future not yet on print.
I feel you all around me,
waking me from daydreams –
pulling me back into a reality,
in which, I wish I didn’t
I feel your breath on my skin.
You’re breathing down my neck,
into my lungs, and
as I try to cough you up – you
I feel your eyes peeling of
my layers – you’re looking into
the black abyss called my soul,
I once sold to the devil – you