Staying up later than I should waiting for a communication (a call, a text, a social media post) that will never arrive
WE are gone. I know that now. WE probably never were, if I am honest with myself. But I’m not honest with myself, so I don’t know (won’t admit it) if the truth hurts more than the fiction
The fiction that maybe somewhere you are working and the time just got away from you and you don’t know that I am still awake. The fiction that you don’t want to wake me so you tell yourself that you’ll try tomorrow.
But tomorrow turns into today and today turns into tomorrow again. And the waiting gets easier for me because it becomes routine and hours turn to days that turn to weeks that turn to months
I can talk about you now without weeping (openly) and daily reminders don’t ache as long or as deeply. I no longer ask myself what you might think about something (Although, I do wish you were here sometimes when I cry about life Because you pretended we were friends and made me laugh)
Today life was hard and I needed you. I whispered your name in the dark (hoping the wind would carry thoughts of me to you) but you answered me with a silence I am all too familiar with