one after another.

her loneliness intensifies under the influence of music. his face, his imaginary face fabricates at her fingertips. she draws, quietly. she draws him by memory, from as much as she can remember. his clear blue eyes--or was it green?--she can't remember, and she is afraid she will no longer remember him. their brief encounter, their momentary burst of emotions that was perhaps, mostly just made up and felt by her alone, it was all so dramatically important to her. 

even if it was imaginary.

a relationship that has never happened in reality, scenarios that has never took place in real time or at real places, and emotions that were never really real. but it was all too real to her. she loved living in her mind, a space where she can call everything her own. where everything is comfortable, lovely, warm, safe. where everything is predictably unpredictable, and everything goes according to her plan. where she can tell stories of her own. where she feels happy and sad by her own free will, instead of being under the influence of third parties, like music, or books, or movies, or worse yet--people.

it's real now.

this imminent feeling of isolation, of entrapment, of being bound. 

she has nowhere to go. she has nowhere else to go. it's only her, it's only her, it's only her. she tries to cry because she no longer remembers, remembers his face, his touch, his hair, his smile. nothing. but there are no tears. there never are. she was never one to cry. not even when she willed it to happen. her body often refused in a highly egoistical manner. 

it is late, and dark, and quiet. she lays in her bed, thinking. of you. quietly. 

she drifts into sleep, your smile struggling to stay in her mind like static noise.

she sleeps.

and she dreams.