Breathe

Her CD arrived in the mail today. The one she’d mentioned in a chance meeting a few weeks ago, in the course of a simple and plain conversation, catching up on many years of being out of touch.

It came in a padded white envelope with foreign stamps and a customs declaration. You take it out and look at the picture on the cover, and decide that she looks more or less the same. The case looks fairly new, although the back is stamped with the word “Sample” in dark red letters. You open it, inspecting the liner notes and noticing that the disc looks like it’s never been played, and that the liner notes look like they’ve never been taken out, true to the seller’s description.

You examine the six photos of her in the liner notes. It’s a darker, older and more knowing version of her, someone whom you almost do not recognise. You play her CD. Her voice is higher-pitched than you remember, ethereal.

You try to recall the times you spent with her, but the images are fleeting, playing hide-and-seek in your mind and not wanting to be remembered. You wonder if she ever realised how much you cared about her and how much you wanted to be with her. This woman, then a girl, who changed your life more than she will ever know. This girl, now a woman, who at one point was the greatest love in your life. Who was, and perhaps always will be.

And if I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted
All the time
All the time

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