Regina Spektor’s Voice is More Convincing Than Mine
Sitting still, eyes closed but the light from the lamp seeps through. My breath barely audible above the sleek smooth swoosh of cars passing by my window sill. I float within time and space, trying so hard not to think of you.
But I fail.
If only it was as simple as a fading memory into nothingness. Head listlessness, heart heaviness, you’re stuck in my mind. You’re here but physically you haven’t been, nor hell nor heaven, it’s purgatory that serves your sin.
You’re stuck somewhere between a memory and what could’ve been.
And yet I am punished. Because it’s not you who is actually stuck. It’s me. I put you on repeat. Repeat repeat on repeat. Self inflicted, self indulgent, masochist me. A sad desire within me wants you to fight for me. Fight with me. Fight. Struggle. Challenge. Care. I’m in denial. So sad, so pathetic, to resist, to reject the sure possibility that you now only exist in sheer memory.
But I don’t want us just to be a memory. Baby, come back and fight with me. I don’t want it all to be a memory. Baby, come back and fight for us. I don’t want you to be a memory. Baby, come back and fight me. I don’t want just a memory. Baby, come back. Please.
