I Wonder if She Ever Thinks of Me?

I wonder whether it’s strange that she still haunts me so but know it’s not.

It’s not an unpleasant haunting anyway.

She accompanies me, at least mentally, every day on my way to the university where, as I approach the entrance, I almost always slip my finger into that special ring, wondering whether the seal will be right side up, which means a future together, or upside down, which means, who knows what, and I try to manipulate that imaginary fate.

Odd that it slips on right side up much more now than when a relationship seemed almost real, and any way, she’s gone now, left for who knows where.

I recall the extreme beauty of her face and throat and then gratefully, the fact that I’d not cared for her legs, a bit too thick for my taste and being more of a leg man, … generally I sigh gratefully at that point asking myself how I’d feel had she been perfect, appreciative it was not so.

Her memory doesn’t seem to cause me any pain, at least not pain I feel at any conscious level, but there may be echoes of something like pain that I hear, or is it the casting of its shadows that I see?

Whatever.

Strange that she still seems omnipresent. After all, I see her now for what she was and that was not lovely at all, other than physically of course.

But she’d had such a hold on me, like a black hole’s gravity well, or a moth’s special flame, and it disappeared so suddenly, too fast for trauma to set in, or at least that’s what I seem to hope.

I wonder if she ever thinks of me?
_______

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