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.

She’s lost.

And when I try to imagine what it must be like for her

I have to remind myself that she doesn’t know.

She’s lost.

And I can’t help her find herself again.

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