The sky was the last place he ever saw her face. On moonlit night, with the apartment’s backup generator grumbling a thumping rhythm, the memories strummed his soul a melody.

Like everyone before her, she had lit up his existence for a brief moment in time, then flickered and waned. Snuffed out like a candle at the break of dawn. A brighter light, a sweeter promise, a softer fall as he learnt to maneuver the valleys between the peaks. The ecstasy overshadowing the imminent disappointment.

You see, he didn’t understand that love could be wanting at times. That there would be gaps where apathy would sneak in and power games of who had the bigger clout surface. For him, it was an incline, a gradual ascension into the divine until breathing ceased. He was an idealist.

He glimpsed her now in a pristine gown and recalled the time he had fantasized being the one she desired. That basic human need for recognition and reciprocation. It was in the past now and he could no longer hold on to the warmth that memory brought him.

Now, all he had were these shreds of what he thought love was. And he put them away for a better time.

Even when he dreams, he no longer understands his attachment to his former selves. They seem like strangers he would meet on the street, maybe exchange a smile and never confront again. Just faces without names, places that feel familiar but could be anywhere, and emotions that fail to convey a meaning.

A canvas yet to be adorned
Empty nonetheless full