I’m sure, in our far off worlds, we both have thoughts about one another that seem to mirror the motion of a teeter-totter, back and forth between a missed love and hurtful anger. If only there was a way that we could have shared this universe together, because in this new isolated world, I haven’t been able to see stars the same way I did when I was with you. I do wish you could know how I feel; I wish you could read my thoughts and see everything I’ve discovered about us, who we were, and why things ended the way they did. I wish that on all the nights I’ve closed my eyes yet not gone to sleep, that I could turn a switch and listen to your thoughts, see your dreams, and know exactly how your heart is beating. If you listened to my thoughts, you wouldn’t like what you heard, you’d be stabbed by hearing how much pain you’ve caused me, and you would be able to feel the loneliness that seems to echo during the night. As you listen to my thoughts, you wouldn’t have to wait long to hear the word, “hate.” You wouldn’t have to worry about questioning how I am, because you would see that every night before I go to sleep, I bring my pillow to my chest and wrap my arm around it the same way I did with you, You reached out, in your own peculiar particular way, and I rejected it. I turned away because it’s the only thing I know how to do. I’ve spent months and many nights analyzing and interpreting. I’ve hypothesized and estimated and come to conclusions about us, only to feel the slightest bit of progress. I’ve come so far yet feel like it’s only a single step. I can’t reach out to you. I can’t fathom to hear your voice. I can’t do any of that, because I know that as soon as I see you, or as soon as I hear that sweet soft voice, I will drop everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve decided, and come back to you.
Months ago, I couldn’t imagine life without you, and now that I’m finally experiencing what that feels like, I’m almost confirming my previous inclinations, because this doesn’t feel like a life at all. It doesn’t feel, at all. The only time I can escape, however momentarily, is when I fill myself with smoke, and experience the numbing high that ironically allows me to feel once again. When I’m up there, I can see things in the same light I used to, and it amazes me that long ago I could feel like this on nothing at all except your taste. I saw you live in the clouds, and realized I used to live there with you. As of now, it feels like I’m still falling through the sky, looking back at the puffy white matter I used to walk on, and not know how much air is left between me and the ground. The thing about this fall, is that contrary to what one might think, it is not the ground that breaks a man, it is those moments when he realizes that he fell. The seconds, minutes, and hours when he sees how high he was, and sobers to the reality that he is on his way down. The impact does not break him, it only finishes what the fall started. I envy those with a short fall, because they can get up, and find a new cloud to sit on before falling again. You and me, our cloud was above the point of getting up again; it was the cloud higher than thought possible, the dangerous one that only foolish men aspire to live. I know that once I hit the ground, I won’t be able to get up again. I will only look back into the sky, and see that place we once lived on together. I will lay on the ground, broken and shattered, and only wish that I could stand up, and climb back to our perfect little cloud.