This is how I fall asleep: cold and alone, thinking of the only things that really matter. How can I live for more than fifteen hours a day when all that’s important can be compressed in fifteen minutes of thoughts - of hopeless and sleepless thoughts?
In my mind, I replay our conversations, even those of the distant past. I make mental notes of the things I said wrong, and of the things I could have said right. But for no good reason. You’ll never talk to me again in the way I have familiarized as home.
I used to thank The Sandman for giving you bad dreams, because that was the only time you needed me, the only time you called out for me. But now, you don’t even do that anymore. So I step back, put both my hands over my face, and wordlessly hope to the stars that you are feeling fine tonight, because I can no longer be there to make sure you are.
One night, I saw you down the path where we had always met. And I was almost sure that you’d stop and wait for a few minutes, just like before. But being sure isn’t the same as being hopeful, and instead of speeding up to meet you in our spot, I was the one who had to stop when you didn’t even bother to remember. I can still smell who we were, but I can no longer keep up with what you are becoming.
Can you slow down and remain in place? Because I get that I was the one who first turned the page, and I can never ask you to look back when all you’ve done is move forward, too fast, as if you were desperate to close the book before I even noticed you were reading ours, too.
This is how I wake up: hopeless and impatient, waiting for the next opportunity to think of you again.