23

I was surprised to see that he looked the same, disheveled, yes, dirty, yes, but as he was always. I supposed I had expected him to be shrunken and skulking, with great dark half moons under his eyes, with odd growths and stains coming from his rumpled clothes, and similarly odd hairs emerging from various parts of his body. I guess the only difference was that everyone knew. That now looks directed towards him were pity filled, cow-eyed.

Looking at him more closely, I realized that there was something different about him. I didn’t notice it before because he did anything and everything to distract the average looker from it. Twitched his nose. Flicked his finger. Blinked his eyes. Loosened his shoulders.

It was the haze, the orb of loss.

As if a magnet was pulling him closer and closer towards itself, as if his skin was being stretched to that place where HE was. I’ve heard many people contemplate suicide after their loves die. But I don’t think it’s contemplation, I don’t think it’s wild, luminous thoughts. I think it’s a magnet, a force that tries to pull you from one place to another. HE was his other half, the pole of one to which matched only one.