The World

I cannot remember what she looks like.

They say it is natural, for the details to fade with time. Receed back into depths where the ghost of her laugh still lingers, where I can still feel the bass pounding through my chest and the unspoken promises behind her smeared eyeliner.

You mean the world to me, I translate.

On autopilot, I drift through the spaces we used to occupy. Every lampshade and ratty inch of this apartment sends memories kaleidoscope-ing across the inside of my eyelids. I see her sprawled out across the matress, I see her rigid and teary-eyed in the dark, I see her head tilted back as she gargles mouthwash before the bathroom sink. She isn't there.

It seems the world wasn't enough.