Simulacrum

What is worst about our lives together now: Jim no longer is my Jim. He is a simulacrum that looks like Jim but is not him, he is Jim only in small, residual ways. And that destroys me.  

Shared intimacies and long standing knowledge shared stand no longer. Every day there are reminders we are not the lovers we were because, well, Jim doesn't remember I hate bananas, he brings me one in the morning. Good news: he thinks of me and wants to feed me. 

It's awful to live a faded love who needs your love and whom you yet love and there is no  surcease of love. And none of that is enough but it is more than enough to slay your heart, to recall the love that will kill you.

OK, haha, hyperbole, y'all.

But it does feel that way sometimes. As Emily Dickinson wrote, something about rooms of dooms or dooms of rooms.