History that aches

I heal with the sound of his voice. You know, the flamboyance of his reckless flick of hand. You realize the depth of spell when you can't look back. Did I not look back? I looked when he did, I looked when he wasn't. Fact is, I never did, not look back. 
When the words cluster and form a knot in my throat, he slowly but firmly untangles them. Like he untangles the curls of my kneeded mane. His fingers running through the intricacies and intimacies of my hair. I can never rid him of his indulgences. Indulgences in me among his other vices. I call myself his vice because he never could leave me. With years and a lifetime of love and hate, he lingers like the hint of incense in the musty confines of my car. Like that charm that catches dreams not dreamt yet.
Sometimes he aches in my bones. Aches like history. Something long gone but which still holds strong. Like those vintage songs one can't stop humming. He is that past. Past with a present and an incoherent future. Dreamcatchers they say. Glorified dreams of mine. That line where past and present blur into a heady mix, there we stand. Just the two of us. Fighting it, yet holding on.