being human

We meet people. And fall in love. And when we part, they leave marks for us to remember them by. Our lovers sculpt us. They define us. For better or worse. Like a pinball we slam into them and rebound in a different direction, propelled by the contact. And after the parting, we might be scarred. But stronger. Or more fragile or needy or angry or guilty. But never unchanged. Our lovers linger inside us like ghosts haunting the corridors and deserted rooms. Sometimes whispering. Sometimes screaming. Invisible, but always there. Waiting. – George