The pretty that was wasted and other small tragedies

He never really knew anything about me.
I don't think a question was ever even asked.
Not once.

Years into the future, if someone were to ask him about me his eyes would glaze over and he would tilt his head, searching a blank file where my picture should have been painted.

He knew nothing of my passions or interests.
My schooling or family.
My past lovers or my indifference towards having children.

I was a stand in to him.
A warm body filling the void until the next player should enter.
Stage Left. Dimmed house lights. Spot up.

Curiously, onlookers watched my willing participation in such an imbalance of equilibrium.
Musings over rumors of my walking coma, my narcotic hazed delusions, my memory loss excused such tripping steps.
But only I embraced awareness for my broadcasted insanity.

I wasted the beauty.
And hadn't even a photo to show for it.

Peculiar to patterns past this play was shortened in acts.
Rather than a full chapter, a mere page.
Words pulled and poked at one another striving to create another full paragraph.
But the letters were merciless.
And unmoved to form even a single sentence.

The tragedy was his obliviousness to such a rare and vibrant connection.
The potential for words inaudible to be understood. Clear.
For the strain of isolation to give way to warm bodies, entwined.

But as Timing and Ego and suffocating Facades would have it, such anticipations became moot.
And gathered coatings of dust.

Glimmers of the passion sparked in between blinks when some flint got in their eyes.
But the saline waters washed each faint flicker out.
And all that remained was an unmet look. Searching.
In vain.