deception

friday 7th november 2003 @ 02:15

while he sleeps through a feverish cough, i sit. barely two months have passed in his company and already disappointment is settling heavy in my stomach and gives my insomnia something to feed on. my expectations were high as always, but i am dazzled by the force at which i was drawn in.

the things that impressed me have become little more than memories and shadows in the dark.

he talked of a tv drama, i said i'd read the book and he denied knowledge of it's existence. in empty night hours i peruse the bookshelf where i find a copy bearing her name. the girl that got away. i wonder how many of these things here were hers. has he read any of these books? did he choose the paintings, the statuettes? how many more of these things are not a reflection of him, but of her? are the things that i admire here not a part of him at all?

i thought i could see him here amongst the objects he surrounds himself with. maybe these were not his passions at all. i feel decieved.