Written by Perverse Psychology
Behind her transfixed emotionless stare lies a lifetime of memories.
Magnificent stories once warmly re-told as if re-living the moment.
The romantic in me wishes I could say that Age delicately filed her away in memories, Deciding which ones he’d let float to the floor, only to be found again, if needed, with a little bit of searching.
The romantic in me wishes I could say that she grew old gracefully, surrounded by her family, re-telling her wondrous stories, her soul radiating as she reminisces,
I want to believe that somewhere inside she’s still there.
But I know she isn’t.
And when I try to imagine what it must be like for her
I have to remind myself that she doesn’t know.
And I can’t help her find herself again.
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