juxtaposition of contradictions
"there's something about me that makes me forgettable." she purred this out, sullen and indifferent. "we're born alone and we die alone. maybe I just remind people that."
he shakes his head, disagreeing like a complaint.
she could tell him about the routine of life, how she glides a few inches above it. she could tell him about the African coast, how it turns orange at the end of the summer or how she is never in any of her dreams.
he wouldn't remember any of it.
'if time is immeasurable, then how do you know when you're finished? how do you know when it’s over?'
she wanted to ask.
maybe he would say that time is only immovable, flawed yet thorough. but he felt her pushing it against his eyes like the landscape - peninsulas with lonely fingers, extra letters.
she sighs, "i have this home, but I’m still homesick."