at this rate i'll probably never stop dreaming.

dream last night: at siu, wandering around for a party, but parts of the city looked like chinatown, twinkle lights and good luck cats, that sort of thing.
you rolled into town, right next to our car. i saw all your friends, my heart leapt, your profile and that red shirt in my periphery, losing it.
you look at me in the sort of way you don't really look at someone; i try hard not to stare.
i'm not even sure if you're real anymore, i realize i almost forgot what your face looks like.
front porch party, we're there and so are you. you seem wounded and vulnerable, i'm giddy with fear, i feel like you will evaporate.
i hear you telling me i'm wrong, telling me i don't exist and neither do you, telling me nothing at all because your silence is aimed like a flaming arrow in my direction.
i'm sorry, sorry, i'm so sorry.
the words well up like hot springs then dribble out my mouth like a leaky faucet; it will never, ever be enough to be as sorry as i am.
this is only a problem because i could never be more sorry.
not for a second do i forget, awake or asleep, crying or laughing, you're the leftover thought pattern and missing you is becoming the glue that holds everything else together. but the peices, they don't fit so well, having cracked at the edges and gotten mixed up as you cracked them all with those 7 pages, that one sentiment, those final words- leave me alone.
i enter doors, i go up stairs, i'm looking for something that makes it real, makes it make sense, but the lights don't go on and when they do it's no one flipping the switch. in places you're not a frantic emptiness takes over me, and soon i am waking up, tumbling, groping the air for the doorknob that opens to where you are.
half conscious, i know the door is locked, then i am gone altogether.
i keep trying to say goodbye, but i just want you to come back.
one day maybe you will, and maybe i won't blame you for the time you were gone.
i won't.

just keep on

pretending the high road doesn't look idyllic from the trench that, yes, i dug, but you yourself flung your being into with such force. it takes a force, alright, to divide what the same souls hated to let part (once).
i boil over and burn at the thought of letting cool a passion that burned red hot, knowing it ends in empty black and memories long stripped of any luster. i started the fire and i passed the torch to you, but on my chance at beating back the heat i tried my best to keep you free from that scalding disappointment. remorse is thankless, gratitude a rare happenstance now, and apologies will never suffice to heal what is ultimately self- inflicted.