Far enough, far enough wasn't far enough.

His snores are so tiny, but keep me awake, still. My blue breasted bird, the smaller of two parakeets, mimics his sound; makes small grunting breathing sighs of his own. I look to my wall where there was a corner filled of film prints, each vibrant in their color, their own memory splendor. But they are gone, hiding face down in a closet where I won’t be tempted to look. Where I won’t be tempted to travel into the page, into the gelatin print of happiness; into the corners of mouths, upturned and opened; into the strands of hair, breezing over shoulders and across noses, reflecting every ray of summer sun in a grand shade of gold. Where I won’t be tempted to allow myself to remember what it was like to love a boy and a friend.

I sit here; “be strong,” I tell myself over and over.