She told me that her true smile was reserved, and that we get is a drunken, mangled thing; an attempt at faking her way through another pointless evening, tired and alone. She told me her smile existed somewhere in memory, a pinprick on the periphery, like Carl Sagan’s earth or the quickly fading lights of cars speeding away.
She laughed simulacra at the rambling jokes of those that keep the time until something better comes along. She tried to stop when I was around, so we cried together instead.
We woke with the smell of sleep, red eyed and innocent. We dressed and lifted our lips in false greeting. The sunlight was languishing in the clouds as we walked hand in hand. Her hair was tangled with the sunlight as our eyes met in mourning, lamentations for what was left behind.