The Black and White Picture



MS MR - Fantasy music video, directed by Austin Peters

I stared at the black and white picture you showed me. Your voice is echoing in my head. Sure, I remember the exact tone of your voice. The lowest growl and the highest squeal. The weakest whisper and the strongest shout. I remember stories you told me with that voice. I remember even every sigh you let out when you telling me those stories.

I stared at the black and white picture of you. It was you I remembered. Your super dark wavy hair still looked as soft as what my brain memorized and your deep set black eyes still have their sharp gaze. I know with that kind of jawline and cheekbones you can get any girl you want, even guys. I can’t wait to hear your story about them. About those who chasing you and those whose heart you desire.

Then I looked at you. Not the one in the black and white picture, which is getting more and more crumpled because I looked at it too many times, but the real you. You that are breathing, blinking, smiling, and talking. But you didn't talk to me. You are too far away I can't hear your voice. All I can hear is silence. Silence that screams so loud it freaked me out. Even if I heard your voice, it doesn't speak to me. It sounded like it came from a parallel universe, a place where you once were there showing me the beauty of sins and listening to the smell of my flaws. It sounded like it came from the past when it was late night and instead of dreaming, we talked about dreams.  

I looked at the crumpled black and white picture of you. It's the same curly lips that held me from staying mad at you. It's the same pointed nose that kept getting a bit itchy so you scratch it when you're thinking.  

I thought I knew who's in the picture. I thought it was you.  

But I have no idea who is this person on the picture. I don't know him. I don't know you anymore.  

The You I knew stuck in time. A month or two. Maybe a year behind. In the present I am out of your realm. We no longer share the dulcet delusion. I sing my tristiloquy, you’re dying to hide yours. 

So I just tear the black and white picture of someone who I thought was you.
To two.
Four.
Eight.
Sixteen.
Thirty two.
Sixty four.
And so on. To small pieces 'til I even don't remember what color your skin was.

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