Every day, I wait for a stranger to return home, into my arms. Every night, I cuddle up with him in bed. Every morning, I get up and spend the day figuring how will I design my life today to fit into his. He says he loves me. I believe him. I dare not go back to what was my life, lest he throw me out of his. He lives for me, I for him. Slowly, we die everyday. Together, both of us, waiting to be heard by the other. To be understood. To be accepted. We’re in love, passionately. There’s no one between us. Unless, of course, we count life as an intrusion. Do we have a life. Will we. I do not know.

I do not even know myself anymore. Or him. Does he know me. Maybe. I work hard to keep myself from him. Proximity is an illusion. A dream that shall never be. I tried. Very hard, and very long. Not anymore. He has a life to live. I let him.

I have death to approach. The journey is long and painful. Sometimes, I beckon him, to walk with me, awhile. He consents. He experiences the deadness, and recoils into horror. He hugs me tight, and then runs. Fast. Furious. Back to life. His life. Sometimes, I wonder. About the colours of his life. And recall, what was once mine. But is no more. The burning ambitions, the shameless arrogance, the desire to transform the world. My world. The world that loved me. Those people who respected me. Accepted me, with all my follies and failings. Who understood me. Believed in me. Who knew how I transform their world everyday. Our world. I no more belong to it any more. I no more belong to them anymore.

And every day, as I live figuring out how to fit myself into the life of this stranger who loves me, I miss myself. Terribly. Every moment, I get closer to the stench of death. Knowing, there’s a part of me that wants to live. To cry. To laugh. I worshipped a God once. Are you listening. Do you bother. Do I matter. I did once, remember.