It is difficult recalling you now. I look back over these entries, and see that I have captured it all.

Something inside protests; it suggests there must be something else. But I am tired of you, the burden of your amazing eyes, the funeral song of your words.

The lack of posts does not indicate a lapse in your presence within me. I had hoped it would, but your existence still disturbs my days, my nights- it's just that it doesn't add up to a memory that can be recorded here.


Instead, the struggle is this: i hate you and want you to leave me spiritually, like you have left me in every other way, but in that wish is trepidation of what i will do when you're gone.

You are not worth this much energy- i wasted 11 years on you and hoped i would not a second more.

pallette

I should have known it was a bad idea; and, as with all bad ideas, I embraced the chance to immerse myself fully.


Your ghost walked beside me, looking at flats of purple and yellow... the selection was minimal, and now I know why we would visit more than one store. I have to fight to not buy flowers that you would buy, to not lay them out as you would. It is hard; your sense of aesthetics is subtly pleasing, somehow brilliant in a low volume.

Damn your art, and damn you.

my feet will want to walk where you are sleeping

The other day I considered that this blog has run its course, that what is captured here is not so much for keeping you alive as it is preserving 11 years, as futile as that is.

It has served its purpose. I review the entries weekly, a sort of visiting the grave site, and indulge in the bitter sweetness that was you.

Was you.
Was
you.

We are tethered by two beautiful strands, but they are beautiful for the fibers within them not by the anchors on either end.

I cannot bear to think of you and I cannot help but think of you.

delirium tremors

The repertoire of rehearsing your faults runs thin.... i am like an alcoholic who convinces himself that a glass of whiskey will not save him.

If only they all added up to some monstrous image. They should, but all I ever see is your smile.

Useless.