I've always believed in ghosts

I just never thought I wouldn't believe in you.
Part of me wishes you would stop haunting me.

Fatigue

Tired of being tired. Tired of resting and not sleeping. Tired of talking and feigning enthusiasm; enthusiasm takes so much effort. Tired of being so lonely. Tired of acting like people make me feel anything real. Tired of smiling without mirth. Can we rest now?

The opposite of loving is lying.

If you can’t be who you are, become who you hate.

no one knows you're there

you've already faded into the background. again.

Infinite

She sat quietly. Was there any other way to sit? Her hands rested in her lap, tracing the bones in each finger to avoid looking up. Up into the nothingness. She waited on that window-sill every day. She imagined this moment so frequently it was almost corporeal. Her visualization of him showing up at her door became more opaque. She didn’t dare move in those moments of frail balance between the devastating reality and the equally painful deception. She clung to that falsehood like a piece of driftwood after a shipwreck. Her hands tightened on one another, grasping as if they were clawing up a cliffside. She forgot what holding his hand felt like. She couldn’t remember what it felt like when he touched her face. Every piece of him was being stolen from her. Her happiness was replaced by agonizing pain. The knowledge that she would never kiss his lips again or touch his hair or curl her body around his; this was the place where happiness came to die.

Her light was draining. All the optimism and hope she had somehow found a way to save was waning. It used to feel like a star was burning inside her, propelling her through each day. Now it seemed as if her ending was near. Can a star sense when it’s about to die? Her heart fluttered in the unpleasant way they do when struggling to do its job. Not in the endearing way they should when you think about the one you love. 

The instability of her body was enough to force her to slump. She laid out in front of that window, looking up and refusing to blink. She could miss him in that millisecond. The sun began to set and still, she had not moved. She could feel her heartbeat slowing, yet not stopping. She contemplated how long she could lay there, waiting for him. Would he ever come back for her? Perhaps if she waited long enough, and laid quite static enough, time would pass more quickly. She vowed to stay still and silent, never moving her eyes from their fixed location. 

She saw lives moving in front of her while she held her ground. But never the life she wanted. Those hands never knocked on her door, those eyes never peered into the window, but mostly, that heart never came close to hers again.

And still she waited. A modern day Briar Rose, waiting for love to claim her.

Nebulous

I can't decide if the nightmares are worse than the pleasant dreams. The nightmares seem appropriate and deserved. The dreams in which we seem happy feel like a betrayal. But the dreams are weighted down by a tangible sadness. Once I realize we're happy in what couldn't possibly be reality, I awaken. Usually weeping. Usually clutching my chest. Typically, I can't sleep again after. Remember when we loved sleeping in? Remember when napping was the gambit I used to get you to kiss me again? I hate sleeping now. I lie in my bed for lengths of time not wanting to sleep but not wanting to stir. It's the happy dreams I try most not to wake from, but it's involuntary. I bury my head in my pillow that smells of you and cry out for those visions of another time to be real again.

The dreams. They are the injurious.

The nightmares are just waking up with bruises. Easy by comparison.