Venting plague

[Lavínia]

I loved someone. I love someone. Time makes things pass, feelings and desires change. But I keep thinking about him sporadically, so he remains in my head. Like a pattern, a connection that proves strong to the neurotransmitters, a passage used so regularly that it remains connected, reinforced. Like using numbers that are memorized regularly. I tried to have a cold will, an attachment to a dream that is inherent to me, something of my own, something that only I wanted, and I couldn't. I abandoned it. But this pattern, this lie of love, continues to circulate. In a flash, a synapse expands, synaptic explosions, point A to point B, screaming his name. This is not love, this is not obsession, it's a disease where I chew my flesh and try to mold it into his image. What was his face like? How did he move? What were his ears like? What were the tips of his fingers like? You didn't smile much, did you? Would you smile now? Could I still make you smile? Maybe I was born just for this, not to do something for you, but just to think in vain, and that's a little sad.