Every night for the past two weeks, I’ve been haunted by memories and regrets.

I see one of your faces, or I see you doing something, or saying something you would never have done.

I hear your voice as you smile at me, the words a figment of my fantasy, the touch a simpler, fantastical version of our past.

I dreamt of someone last night, someone that might have been you in a different scenario. You asked me to kiss you, that the spark between us remains despite how long it’s been. In the dream, I’m the one who feels nothing, I’m the one pushing you away, I’m the one who tries to walk away, who is hurtful and cruel, sharp with my words, dead in the eyes, annoyed and frustrated and searching for an escape, a way out. 

While you stand there, arms wide open, eyes brimming with disappointment and rippling pain. It’s not the same anymore, there’s nothing there, just give up and stop trying to hard. I see your joy and smile at our touch, but inside I’m dead and sad for you.


I stare past your eyes and into an alternate future, one where it works out. The dryness of my eyes and composed breaths tears the denial straight out of your palm, as you let our intertwined fingers untangle, my hands falling limply to my side. I wish it was different, I wish it could have worked out, I really do.

But you’re not the one for me.

Joy does not spark to life when you smile at me, neither does each trill of the phone jumpstart my heart’s palpitating. I feel nothing when I see your face, but be thankful it hasn’t turned to disgust.


Just. Stop.

For your own dignity’s sake.


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