Twenty-Two

twenty-two

The bed is my least favourite place now that you’re away. It has become cold and distant, you know. How it used to be so soft and warm and comfortable I can barely remember.

The chairs and tables are mocking me, jeering at me, and even the TV doesn’t seem to be so friendly anymore. It has refused to entertain me no more and watch me drowning in pathetic silence instead.

The kitchen is a graveyard; only ghosts of your laughter echoes across the room. The walls are eager to trap me in desolation, while the fridge stands haunting like a hollow hole.

But it is the mirror I hate the most of all. I hate looking at the loser who’s staring at me back; the world’s most remarkable idiot for letting you go. I have to restrain myself not to hit his sorry face.

Please come back.

Symphony is you, and I am nothing but tuneless melody too unstable to even form a song.

– August 22 2009

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