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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Just excerpts of writing from a game I'm making.

You do know her. 

You are wistfully aware of your poetic observer's identity and your relationship with her.

You're lovers.

"What kind of lovers?"

Not conventional ones.
your differences were too irreconcilable. 

You're lovers who have embraced your incompatability.

You have both looked at each other through lens of disgust and found varying amounts of acceptance in your distaste of another.

If you were to look back and try to identify the bearer of the voice yourself, you would find only a moonlit shadow and a treaded path as experienced as yourself. 

This path is the chain that binds you two. 

For now you trudge forward and keep the interrogative questions on her and away from your own sanity.

"Continue listening to her answers."

The voice stirs awake to answer your identifying questions. 

It comes forward to your ears like a seasonal wind raising from a pile of leaves, repeating its cycle. 

It lacks an origin or source as you receive it. 
Its words are soft vestigial echoes that curl and move against your ears like hot craving breath. 

For now, all you can do is glean the ancestry of these echoes.


Again? with the "we've met before" act?
You always forget easily. 
But then, 
It could be easier to not remember...

For now I'm fond of being just a her
Just a - were
Look at the birds won't you? The insects. The Life too small to see.
And the life smaller than that, unaware.
Stop and Listen.

As we did.
when our relationship was intact
Before you started changing 
as me - Seasonally
Before your memory became abstract

Back before the ledger

If you want to know then look there
where you catalog my greenery.
Documenting the middle of December - 
The cold timber and the colder tender.

Where you preserve me in amber prose greedily. 
Writing of me secretly.
It is in spite - I answer you facetiously.

She is enjoying herself - you can sense the subtle elation in her voice. 

Whoever she is, she is happy to talk to you. 
To recite for you. 
She is finding pleasure in the agonizing act. 

You do not know if it is because you are good company, or her only company, but she is here to endure next to you. 

Your senses are as faulty as your memory when it comes to determining her isolatory ailment - alone, or lonely, discerning the two is too difficult in your state.

Submitted: October 15, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Weighted Ink. All rights reserved.

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