Scattered

I once dated a man who was obsessed with the song Ave Maria. It should have been the first and last red flag. But true to form I churned the image of him into art. Something deeper than he was. Which is where my story begins. And dies. Just does my hope for love, everlasting. I think, sometimes, that I have given up, or perhaps I never started. Not really. Pipe dreams and unrealistic fantasies borne from fiction and make-believe—but only it was my imagination, she said. High for just a scream. I sit here now, sound— bottle: half empty; memoir: unwritten. What a failed fatale I have been unto myself yet alone to others. Echo alone, alone. Gone, gone she blows lost drawn by the wind, dust begotten is the now. Mist under sun. Breeze-sneezed. Scattered and strewn. And missed.