The shape of her is fingerprinted in his mind...the way she walks, the way her head turns and allows the slope of hair to glide and fall against her. The way her eyes move from the ground to high-beam into him, sometimes the tiniest...
tiniest pull of the line of her lips into a sad smile. A clench. Wry.
If like him she lets something break inside that spills warm...chest-high, acetylene-pure and a little remorseful...because breaking something should hurt.
And you would figure over time that the little parts would ossify, they'd harden like a fossil, rust even.
No. These remain vivid...blood-red and body temperature right...never exhausted, never worn out. These tiny bits that remain...like the parts of a bullet left inside a body, in-extricated, spread out in some random pattern. Just below the skin.
You would think that in the absence there could never be such presence.
That in the fall colors it would be a gray spot...a morning fog color due to just time doing its slow acid drip on memory so razor thin it is now barely reminiscent.
But not her, and her way about him...she lay inside of him, encapsulated in tiny crystalline capsules of memories....built over time and built over effort.
And the ironic effect that every time he saw her, or perhaps even less...thought of her...
another one burst inside of him and was very soon and quickly....
tidily, efficiently and perhaps more than a tad magically...
became replaced by a fresh and brand new one.
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