I have memoirs within me, they unfurl when I travel alone, noticing and un-noticing many that pass by. Sometimes they belong to me so I smile engendering memories we shared and bred together. I click and click till they blink their eyes and vanish but then there are those I don't know, those new to my existence, those who pass by without smiles and warmth, those who are busy making memories with their own people, those who have their own clicks, those who have their own memoirs. Those who don't belong to me and yet every time I travel alone they pass by me and it clicks.
I have unmade veins, they are a mix of green and blue, traveling through whatever little is left of me. They are no maps to where my intention lies, they are his doing, he made them to find my own ways, ingesting hollowing smoke into them, puncturing my flesh, oh! there is none left. They spread among the redishness of my burnt skin, he often leaves his traces down where he travels. You won't find me, I am lost within my own veins.
I call myself a man with open wounds, fresh air and sun fills up my entrails with love and loathe, blood rushing to the ends. I have no women to name these scars after and yet I have them evidently placed under my sleeve, that's where all of them left their slippery kisses hidden to reconcile with in times ahead. None of them returned. I drew a line every time she left me with a staying smile and then in no time I had too many to sustain. It was to remember the number of kisses I got in a lifetime, the number of women who left a part of their existence with me, the number of women who moved on without taking them back but it was too late to realize that my number of scars long proceeded the number of women who unloved me.