I.
I, to nobody's surprise, have seen lists on Tumblr recently discussing places where reality is altered. These places include empty parking lots, playgrounds at night, and abandoned 7/11's. However, these lists neglect to mention your bedroom at any point in time, or any space you happen to occupy.
II.
I lay on your bed next to you. I feel the weight of a thousand souls drop on my diaphragm in an instant, and I am sobbing. I only ate one meal today because I couldn't stomach any more; I would have thrown it up like last time. Everything is heavier when you're around. I need only take a few crumbs before I'm filled to the brim.
III.
You read the letter I gave you. I meant every word I wrote. You hugged me and held me like your favorite book before you put it back on your shelf. I like to think that, if there weren't people around, you would've held onto me like every promise you've ever kept and kissed me like you really loved me.
We didn't talk about what I wrote. I don't think we ever will. I still hope we do. (Can you be lovesick without knowing if it's really love?)
IV.
Sometimes I think it would be better if I never met you. Then I would never drink the wine of the gods without care. I've returned to drink again, only to get carded at the door. The rain swipes the windows like bullets brushing against skin, your fingers brushing against my sides, my hands, my face. I feel like I need to clean every piece of my skin that you've ever touched, though I know it would be to no avail; each touch stained somewhere deep beneath my skin. Your fingerprints are tattooed on my lungs from when you first robbed them of oxygen.
Still, I want to rip off every bit of dirtied skin left on my body. If it can't be cleaned, I'll get rid of it. I can't cry anymore, so my eyes will soon go too.
V.
Antarctica is considered a desert because of the limited rainfall. What a beautiful thing to be: the nearly polar opposite of every idea of what you should be considering the title assigned to you. Something flat and desolate and lifeless, too icy cold to sustain anything less than carnivorous.
The winter was cold without you. Not that you weren't there, but you seemed to flicker in and out. Like television static. Like a mirage in the slush on the sidewalks. The once-snow the cars brushed away and turned into ashy, grey, obnoxious. Something to be discarded. The same slush so tall that I had to jump over it. We laughed together at my short stature. You seemed to think it was cute. I thought that meant I was cute in your eyes. It's apparent now that I was merely optimistic.
VI.
You remind me of that song "Jessie's Girl" by Rick Springfield. In this case, I'm Rick Springfield and you're the girl in question. However, the "Jessie" in this situation isn't a man; Jessie is highways at night, calming guitar riffs, and conversations with the trees. I don't know when I lost you to Jessie, but I know you'll never leave him, no matter how far you go to follow him.
VII.
I need to cry, but I'm an abandoned well. You threw a few coins in me long ago, then walked away and never came back. I waited for your return. I'm still waiting.
