There are two people left in the pictures, turned into a memory

Material things don’t matter, do they?

However, there’s an obvious thread that connects them with emotions, with memories awakened inside two people who are no longer one being. When they grow apart and everyone goes their own way, although the paths are unfamiliar, they leave and what’s left behind are the remains of all those little things that once seemed to be irrelevant, but they’ll never look so small again. The remains of worn-out, shredded T-shirts when they made breakfast together, with a smell of a long-standing perfume combined with a scent of chocolate and a stain of wine when they celebrated an anniversary on the bedroom floor where they found their most beautiful, real fantasy about souls that can’t last without each other. The remains of a paper, mottled by attempts to draw each other and written pages in a ten-year-old notebook about plans and desires. The stolen flowers from the courtyard of the neighborhood are suppressed between vocabulary and books about love and history. Traces of lipstick on every shirt, not seen, but so visible. A hole in the wall near the window that always reminded them of a hole in their hearts if they lose each other and the remains of a wrinkled dress from the first date, and a pair of dusty shoes.

An engraved signature at the bottom corner of the bed.

A bed that was their shelter from evil in the world, from bad people who envied them for the honesty they have. Sheets that will always smell like their skin while burning and melting when they were one. There’s an old radio left that they repaired every time, to listen to their favorite music. They loved everything that isn’t modern today. There’s a deck of cards left, never whole, but theirs. The box with the ring made of paper left behind a guitar they never learned to play, and the first picture together hanging on the door among all others. Those pictures are so alive, so they look at them and feel every emotion like at the moment of capturing, remembering every word said back then. Too painful, unbearable silence remains every morning and every evening. Finally, a habit remains, a habit that has never been of those bad ones, they know what kind. Need, love, belonging, one in a million. Questions and unfinished conversations remain and the deepest breath ever. There are remains of items and little things, material, but with unique sentimentality. There are two people left in the pictures, in the air, turned into a memory in the passage, on the way to new memories, with other people, somewhere far away.

And in the end, they become wrong.

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