The remnants of the things we believed, the things we learned, the love we lived, and learned, of and with each other sit around me, shattered in my mind, segmented in my room, and hauntingly whole and familiar in my dreams. The person that I knew, you said he changed, I didn't care and I guess I still don't. I guess the thing that really tears into me is the capacity for such emptiness, such fickleness, such reckless self delusion. But I suppose the brain does what it has to, in order to survive. I wonder what my brain is doing now.
Friday nights are somehow always the hardest, always the nights I want to talk to you, reach out. Always the nights I want to, the worst, I mean. Because I always do. But after days, minutes, years, hours, after immeasurable pieces of existence dedicated to conversation with you after this unfathomable chasm of inscrutability and despair, I have heard, I have read, I have lived, things I never would have believed. And I suppose the hard thing is deciding between the two options I can see right now. I can believe you believe yourself, that you've convinced yourself it's true - notice I don't even have the capacity to pretend I can pretend you mean it, really, not even the littlest bit - or I can believe you know it's not true and you're lying anyway because you don't know what else to do. I always believed the best of you, I guess I still do. To a fault. I can't believe you would turn away if I talked to you now. But I guess it's in you. Somehow. What have you turned into?
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