Stuffed in a large bag is a book.

I carry this book, and sometimes the bookmark is more intriguing the book.

 A bent picture of two young people on a date marks the pages which have and have not been read yet.

Though I carry this photo with me I can’t help to feel its insincerity.

The way I truly feel, the truth I carry hides between the pages like the photo does.

I don’t and probably never will, love the man in the picture; the one who was actually there and leaves physical proof of his presence.

 I am not interested in the presence of someone physically and because of this I carry the guilt with me. The disappointment is carried with me because I carry no emotions or attachments to the real man. I carry love for another.

But I can’t really say it’s another, but more of a ghost.

This ghost, I carry with me.

 This love is someone I had brief moments with, and these moments are now what I love.

 I carry around the feeling of moonlight on my skin  and the lightness in my heart as he drove, our lips curved at the same time singing the same lyrics;  never before has a night been this peaceful.

 I carry the aberration of a man, the fog of the unknown and the known parts of him.

He was as mysterious as the moon, intriguing and easy on the eyes.

I carry the image of how his hands gripped the wheel, how he bobbed his head, and how his lip curved in a peculiar manner when in thought.

 I can still hear his voice; neither too strong, nor too soft. His voice calmed me like a drizzle in the middle of spring.

 If he were the drizzle, I was a hurricane.

 Without him I would swirl and spiral; there was chaos and all perished without him.

I still carry him.

I carry his hopes, dreams, past, present, and future as if they are my own burden to carry.

I carry all that he is, and all that he could be, as if it was I.

I carry a love for a man tangible in body and intangible in soul. I carry all of this, all of him until I am depleted and sore that the only way I can recover is by carrying something new.

 I begin to carry a new fantasy, a new twisted memory, a new level of infatuation, and a new fantasy of us.

 All that we could have been, is heavier than what we actually are.

 And I can’t let go, or stop fantasizing about the intangible because it is as if the love I carry for him is the anchor attached the ship to the sea; the ribbon keeping the balloon from floating away, and the bridge connecting two very different cities. 

I continue to carry him despite the weight, the pain, or the fact that we don’t have a picture that I hid in my book, and that we don’t have a future.

I carry him, the idea of him because like the balloon and the boat I need something to weigh me down… something to keep me from floating away.