painfully real things that must be deleted to move on

i moved all the pictures into an 'archive' folder.
on a yearly basis, i visit this archive probably, oh,
whenever I get drunk now. which is becoming a variable.

why would i visit this infernal folder?
to masturbate, of course,
mentally, about this one photo of her
absolutely happy and pleased,

stretching herself out over a gare bench.
gare, in french means a station.
her mom is probably taking the picture,
unless she lied to me, and it was taken by some boyfriend of hers.

it's not a concern of mine.

another really good picture of her is ...
is also in this folder, that i must delete.
i can't archive it anymore. that is not the kind of man
that i project myself as.

she sent me letters. one that literally promised
that androids do dream of electric sheep.
she also gave me a puppy on a tricycle with a basket at the back.
she now speaks of taxidermy for the dog, in her journals.

how do you refrain from verbal descriptions of items,
and focus on memories?
well one of the memories is where she put a bunch of posts on mymymyspaces.
then i deleted them when i got angry.

she was cold to me, on a forum.
so i deleted her stupid posts.
then she emailed me about how much
time it had taken her to think each one up.

that, apparently, was the basis for our break up.

i tried to tell her that anything she posts is permanently registered in my brain, but, obviously she thought i was shitting her.

"but it's true. i really do want to be in blindfolds with you."

and your bizzare throwing of the whore on the bed. and i was sartre (before his mind exploded) and her, simone.

her horribly outdated fascination with picasso. what else would one expect from a communist precinct? then there was a time i called her a peasant.

to be honest, i'm not sure why she indulged me. my belief is that it was probably playing one of her higher games, to which i am not privy.

this certainly makes it easier to delete all of her.