You're keeping me awake again. The ghost of Your memory still haunts me, making sleep an impossibility. It sneaks up on me, hiding in shadows, lurking in recesses of my brain I rarely use.
But I know it's still there, I feel it.
Sometimes it makes my stomach knot and turn; sometimes it runs a finger down my spine, making me shiver.
I wish it would go away. And You, too.
If I'm not careful the visions will come. Flickering images of actions and words half remembered (purely imagined?).
Did You really do that to me?
It hurts.
Did I really do it back?
Hurts when You say my name that way.
When was the last time You said my name? Does it still escape Your lips like a sigh, or does it fester on Your tongue like a bad taste?
Do You still think of me at all? Do You wonder if it ever could have ended differently? Do little things in everyday existence, snatches of lyrics, words on a page, do these things remind You of me?
No, I don't suppose they would. You never really had a feel for details like that. Do You even know how to feel?
I was--am--better than what I got, what You gave me.
Wish I'd known that from the beginning.
I still keep little reminders, you know? Poems on walls, photos, tokens of decayed affection. Haven't got the heart to throw them away.
Or maybe I'm just emotionally masochistic.
I wonder what You thought when giving them to me. I think I remember what they were to me.
Maybe.
My memories of You are buried deep, see?
What were you anyway, friend, acquaintance, lover?
Doesn't matter really, for You are none of those things now. You mean nothing in my life, or to me.
Wish I could accept that.
I don't want to watch the sun rise on my ceiling anymore.