on paper it all seems so frail, not worthy of real life;
without the blood and guts it seems a paper back of a hard-bound reality. Sometimes I flip through old times and wonder what would have happened in an edit of the story. Had I found two days prior, would he have reacted differently? Had she showed up at his door an hour before I left rather than after, could it change the plot line? Had he erased that message from the machine, if he didn't have to stay late at work unexpectedly, if he didn't forget his cellphone on the coffee table? Makes the story seem too predictable the way it was, another replica of "cheaters" where trust makes eventual distrust far too easy. The words he used were also as the thin as the paper they were written on. In reality they broke in his mouth, they couldn't fly as far as my ears when the walls fell around me. By then I already knew because that piece had been stolen that is required for proper use. I had applied all means of remedy to the ailing apparatus, but it just stopped. I sat on the small chair and watched him paint his story in words and then he anxiously waited for the falsity to take root and grow into some truth in my eyes. Unfortunately, it also required the missing piece. Yes, flipping through memories pages you almost miss those words in words absence. Carefully constructed, like any thesis, I could make it a strong enough reality to validate a republication, possibly a revival. He is still there, planted in some form of pleasant perjury. I could rewrite the part where it didn't take root, watch his eyes light up as he sees my tears of forgiveness, hold each other as I scramble to reconfigure my self preservation, we continue on, buy cars, birth children, buy houses, miss something...
Meant merely for the page you see. Even on this page it seems gross fiction. Too unbelievable for the living.