They all think they know why I write. They don't. I write to get it out of my head. To make it a story, a part of someone else's life, so that no matter how good or bad, I can detach myself from it. And I write about you repeatedly. Over and over again, till you're just a story in my head. So much - in the last pages of my notebooks in class, on yellow sheets of borrowed paper, in the journal that I intend to burn now, here, there, everywhere. But you just sink in, deeper and deeper; and now you're so deep down that you've become a part of me.
I don't know what's worse, the nightmares that make me shiver in my sleep or these dreams which can never be real. I think even my subconscious is in denial. And even though I lose a little more of you, every day, in a different way, I cannot leave your memory at the door. You know the way.
It bites me. To vow to not tell you what I'm feeling and then break these vows every night and come crashing into you. Come crashing to my sleeping sea. My rock which is standing there, rigid and still. Emotionless. You've got to feel it right? As I hit myself, and hurt myself, and bleed against your surface.. Over and over and over again.
I know how it works.. We'll continue to talk and then it'll reduce. I'll feel the sting of every change. Slowly and gradually, messages will reduce from minutes to hours to days to the point where staring at your picture and empty window is all I'll do. I might never see you again. You know how they tell you it gets okay with time? They lie. You know how you say nobody matters. You lie too.
You never think the last time you met someone was the last. You always thinks there's more. I still think there's more, so much more to come. And in my world of make believe, I'll pretend to be yours forever. Let me intoxicate you with these words of love.
And maybe you can fill the silence with the words you once said?
Because if I'd known for even one second that the last time I looked into those eyes that have always pierced my soul, I wouldn't have looked away, if I'd known the last time I kissed you was the last, I'd never have broken that kiss, and if, just if I'd had a slight clue that last time I held you was the last, I'd have never let go. Ever.