She rises. Then, she falls. Her eyes drift from one corner to the next, tracing the shadows. Nothing had been forgotten where it was removed. Absolutely nothing was stolen. Each item that was placed, whether on a dresser or against the wall, remained in her heart. Nothing special was misplaced, out of proportion, or even seen with the dust upon the surface when collected throughout the time. Love walked in on her. Love has left her, though it did not. It kept itself in her hand, stumbling wherever her confused glance went.
“I can still remember when I wanted to leave,” she says, tasting a small memory of freedom. She squeezes the sheets upon the bed where she is laying. With more frustration, she squeezes harder. All these memories begin to relive themselves, though this isn’t the first time. This event has replayed in her mind, the same as a tape recorder on endless repeat. “I still remember when he has stayed,” she says, tasting another memory of being a slave.
Whenever she remembers something lost to her, she also remembers that it is not gone. She has remembered when she remained with a man, and then remembers when even he wants to stay. When he finally left, the man still stayed. The man didn’t want to go.
“Doesn’t he want to leave?” she asks herself, not the shadows that she notices in every corner. She continues with the next question, “Why does he want to stay?”
Her mouth has asked these questions, and her eyes have noticed the answers. Her own world runs up her sleeve to taste the sweat from her fear. Sadness is combining itself with sensuality to make the strongest of hot flashes to her cheeks. She remembers what she doesn’t, as she doesn’t remember what she does.
Modern Romanticism 