A few months ago I wrote:
There are few things which are quite as beautiful as an inside joke; shared between two people who possibly are the only ones who truly understand the significance of a glance or a word which could trigger all sorts of pretty disasters. I still trip in nervousness when his arm reaches out to pull me closer, ending my miniature fairy-tale with a kiss on my head.But the true beauty would lie in the diffusion of such actions. Up till some friends had mentioned it, I thought I was the only one who recognized intimacy when he yanked on my hair.
Moments when I allow myself to have that sentimental leap in his memory, I want to tear my hair out. The irony. One line of "I can't do this to you anymore" left me flat-out fucked. I was what you'd call, a complete wreck.
This was my car the last night we were together. This was before my heart was ripped apart at the seams, soaked in gasoline and set on fire. Imagine how I felt after. Much worse than this. Even a picture, which couldusually beat a thousand words, wouldn't be able to give anyone much of an inkling.