Omission

Far-nesses away, and I sit on the subway in a alienated city across the Atlantic, and reflect upon your only party blouse. The colours, the shape and the time. So 80's. I think about that. And how did you feel after you bought it, there in one of the few shops on our street that actually sold clothes (although embarrassly outdated, out of fashion)? Was it happiness? Expectations for the evening? Did you think of us, the ones left back home? Or did you just feel like twenty again: free, unrestrained, careless? (There must have been moments for yourself, times when your existence did not depend upon other's gratitude or benevolence, situations that did not determine your value, that did not place you in neat categories.)

It's one of those dreadful mornings, when everything is just wrong. Your voice wakes me up, connects me to the world again (like so many times before). You sound vulnerable, your voice is sore, open and endless. The distance between us is increasing; you're not reaching out to me (and I need that in order for me to know myself). It's ages since you've used that blouse (now it's those massproduced hospital gowns, in a light shade of blue). You probably don't even remember it anymore. But I do. I remember you, and I long for the times when I can hold you in my arms like you once held me.