We don’t speak. Either one of us could be dead for all the other knew. Memories dim with each and every passing year, and as I’m writing my tired heart into submission, I feel like I’m losing the better part of me. It feels that with every sentence, I’m trying to get back to when we were wrapped up in magic, yet it only serves to push me further away. I’ve already sacrificed so much for my dreams, and you were the first. The first I had to let go. The first to feel the brunt of my obsession. It drives me to the brink of despair to ponder such a thought, but it’s true. I let you go, and now with every ounce of my imagination, I’m trying to get you back, to take us to a day when tomorrow never mattered. And sometimes, sometimes when the room begins to spin and cigarette smoke clings to my weary body, the words lead me back home to your arms. Back to your heart. But it’s only fleeting, and the more I do it, the more it changes me. A better writer, yet more and more distant. Walking a lonely path, I need the pain yet curse myself for choosing such a way to be.
You’ve become a ghost. A phantom that mocks and taunts and breaks me with nothing but silent eyes. Oh those big pretty eyes, forever gazing into mine when I try so hard to forget. Banishing you away, and then pulling you back in. This is the game I play. A form of torture, of self-harm. Maybe it’s to elicit those creative demons or to punish myself for being the worthless shell I am. Or maybe it’s that I’m just in love with melancholy; the beauty of sadness that swallows me with ease whenever I ask. The past and regret. Those memories that linger like beating hearts. Autumn leaves and autumn eyes reducing and igniting me in the same breath. The dance of an artist, of bleeding feelings and letting the world know what it’s like to feel pain. Vanity and self-obsession. Blind ignorance to anything other than the things he lusts after the most. Stood there in the dark and aching for your arms, I remember when our love was real. When things felt natural, and there was no need to think about anything else. Those days are gone, but they aren’t lost. They live as I live, and with every letter that follows the last, they swim in this mess of a head, taking me places no one else would ever believe. No one else but you.