The only things I have left of me are the words you hear and the things I choose to tell.
The rest is just swirling ghosts who live in the mist of my past and emerge unplanned when memory and now collide.
There are no links or roots that bind me to the world, or to other times where bonds were forged and the ribbon of love tied us all together.
I remember the green Chilterns, their chalk crosses and butterfly paths up into the tress, but I am not there now. The fields are empty save for the flowing wheat; my footprints long overgrown.
The versions and the variations of the me that spreads the empty canvas of my story across your imagination is another fake, a reflected fraction of someone unknown even to my mother.
I am an outline, an idea, and imaginary being already leaving for another place.