(no subject)
I have dreams of you still.
You appear frail and wilted in an arm chair, head resting off to one side, cheeks sunked in just a bit. You're saying something I can never make out, something about how it's been too long, you're sick, other things that fade into a dull white noise.
I try to say goodbye with a hug someone would give another who has the plague and mumble something like 'sure, sure... we can talk about it next time.' Then, quite clearly, you always say "I don't know if there will be another time."
I walk away.
I still hate you.
You appear frail and wilted in an arm chair, head resting off to one side, cheeks sunked in just a bit. You're saying something I can never make out, something about how it's been too long, you're sick, other things that fade into a dull white noise.
I try to say goodbye with a hug someone would give another who has the plague and mumble something like 'sure, sure... we can talk about it next time.' Then, quite clearly, you always say "I don't know if there will be another time."
I walk away.
I still hate you.