She faded into the opaque of hallucination, and I assume she was just a figment of my imagination. She talked an octave higher than she should have and she said things I never would have dreamed of which is why she haunts my dreams, her voice are my memories.

“Come now, dawling.” She whispers to me at night.

“I flew to Paris this weekend and came back to see you.” She whispers fragments of conversations I don’t remember but remember having.

“I saw you at the flee market and didn’t wave because you were too peaceful to be disturbed.” She whispers everything I want to forget, everything I have forgotten.

“You don’t love me, do you? How could you smile at me every morning if you knew me enough to love me?” She whispers all her fears to me because it’s me. “But I don’t smile at you every morning, because there is no mourning for things I have not seen. I don’t remember you, your face, your mouth, your lips, only those sound waves transmitted from you, your face, your mouth, your lips. This is a one-sided conversation because though you speak you veil everything. All that is left is my incoherent begging for morning to come, because I want you but you are nothing!” I heard my breathing, but I was still asleep.

“I stayed at a motel near your house last night, trying to get up the nerve to go over.” And then I realized I was talking to memories.