Reflections on Irony

Is it odd that despite so bitter an end I don’t eliminate the traces of her former presence: a scarf, an old sweater, a hairbrush, soiled remnants of false hopes?

I think the same dilemma afflicts her from which I draw odd satisfaction although, in her case, I sense that cupidity rather than prurience is the cause: the remnants she retains are materially valuable tokens of a love proved false.

We avoid all but professionally essential contacts during which we share false smiles yet, as every day starts, I play the ring game to foretell our future, grateful for her physical blemishes while acknowledging how easily she overcame them, overwhelming me with her presence.

Alabaster skin and profound pools of darkest brown drawing me into their deepest recesses, deceptive glee in her smile.

Amid eternity’s labyrinths, in the echoing chambers of infinity’s halls, I wonder if there ever was or ever will be a present like the one I once foresaw?
_______

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