It's gonna take time. A whole lot of precious time

"I still think of you," I confess, but I think of them all. Frameless heads on nameless walls. Their portraits amassed and protectively possessed, meticulously maintained, hanging in halls that are chilly, dimly lit, and otherwise empty. A shameless collection of conquests. There's beauty here, where it seems only my eyes can find it. These pupils are attuned to the darkness, their sight trained on the exact points of being and expression in each likeness. In life I hang on to precious little. No assortments of mementos tucked in a chest of wonders. Sentimental objects have no place here in the corporeal world. The physical is ever present, while the silent reveries are an intermittent sort of haunting. A specter appearing and vanishing in intervals, yet never truly gone.