The city burned itself within him, imprinting a silhouette skyline of memories good and bad, but mostly ones of her. It was haunted by ghosts of better times; better, because they were simpler. He felt that each day a fraction of himself withered into the past, cementing a share of happiness into unreachable territory. The joy that once flowed through his veins became fragile and useless as it transformed into a framed picture that he just couldn’t seem to throw away.
The city was dying, to him at least. Every brick, blade of grass, and block party were just projections from a past life with Her, but as he aged, his inspirational memories began to fade, and so did the city. Even on cloudless days, the sun never seemed to shine the same way it did that summer. There was an imperial and cutthroat difference between the city he lived in, and the city he remembered. One would be the white paper printed behind a love story written in black, and the other would act as a false framework held together by playing cards and scotch tape, threatening to crumble at the slightest shake of the hand.
It was not the city’s fault for its decay. He couldn’t be upset with his surroundings; rather, he was upset because it was a sign of the significance she still had on him despite their unrequited silence. A bitterness towards her existed somewhere within him, but a firm love had supremely rooted itself into the dried canals of where his blood used to flow. This love existed in his deepest thoughts, and from then on, he would never dare to say a foul word about her. His adoration survived like a man lost in the confines of space, where his only thoughts would be well-wishes for her future. However, above all else, he wanted nothing more than to never see her again.