Paint that shit gold.

It always seems like when I'm feeling my best the world just finds some sick, perverse way of shooting me down. I miss you so much. Especially on nights like these when I lose something else and my heart dips itself into the well of my never ending tears. It isn't fair. What happens to people and how more often than not we're only victims of the universe not masters. I don't know what to do in this bed alone. I don't know what to feel or who to talk to or how to act. I don't know what it is expected of me. I wish you'd make a sound, rustle some feathers. I miss the feel of your thumbs against my eyelashes as you wiped away my tears. I miss your fingertips, your fingers, your hands. Too often we get caught up in the thematic of things. The titles, the procedures, the roles. I will not apologize, I am not declaring weakness. I just miss you and I am going to allow myself to feel this way tonight.

I'd being lying if I said I never meant to hurt you. I wanted you dead. I wanted you to feel as lifeless as I did. And even now, as I have regained balance upon my swing -- something doesn't feel right. It is because I am forever changed. By your love and our demise and all the feelings that are (still) left over. I would never ask anyone to fill the hole and the void you created. You were perfectly gold. Creme brûlée. It seems near sin, even now, to try to pretend like a circle could fit in your sqaure. Like I would be okay of you attempted to do the same.

Truth be told -- at the risk of being completely bare to Nature and the Universe -- when I think of you I still see me next to you. You are never alone. Not in a dream at night, not in a daydream, not in a passing memory. You are right next to me and we are hand in hand. Your damp, cool hair sticking to your forehead.

I miss you. Please.