The walls are lighter now, less of you, less of me, less of the usness that is haunting me, less of the usness that is useless to think of now. The walls are covered now in nothing but what used to be but should never be again, covered in the reminder of how some things go on for so long after they should end, covered in your cowardice and inability to say how you actually feel. And that's okay. Because I already knew.
If I could erase anybody, it would have to be you. I would be Jim Carrey, and you would have destroyed me. But this is not a movie. This is just me and I'm just here with my cat realizing it had been there all along, and I was so stubborn to hold on, and I was dumb to think of hope around my wrist as having power. It is what it is, really.
This is all that I will write of you, at least on purpose. You are not like the others. You do not get a future. You are gone now, nothing but a dream, nothing but a very distant memory, nothing but the fuzz between the stations. You don't get to have me. You get nothing.
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