The fine lines of you on my skin. Pencil marks. Rubbed out, rewritten, but still felt with fingertips. The tragic melodrama of endings and hurts made loud with a trapped, mirrored rage. Gone now. Distant past murmers in the great cavern of my undiscovered self. An echolocation to who I once was. A smaller yet, some days, more vivid self made of sound and colour and white hot radiance. Untouched by disappointment or despair or loss. One dimensional maybe, but fierce and unwary. Bold and brave and wild with possibility. Unlined by you. Untainted by all the terrible beauty of love.