Journal, Diary, & Blogging / Jevee.

I washed my sheets, but you're still around. When I lay in bed, tricking myself that I'll go to sleep, I feel you here yet. Your scent lingers; I pray to God that it doesn't leave either. But even if it did, you'd still be around. We both know. Your D.N.A. lays around, on the floor, floating. It's almost like you hover in my corners, watching. I wish you did. Instead, you're somewhere else; you're not here.

But I miss you yet. Unbelievably, numbingly miss you. At this point I am wishing not to know your name. To never have seen your face, never stared you down. Only because it would make things so much easier. Because I wouldn't spend my sleepless nights hoping for you, but of my lioness instead. You take too much of her time, and you should be ashamed.

I'm scared of my naievity. That I'm so unbelievably sheer and easy to figure out.

Like a ghost- would you prefer that?
"Of course; what's better than never sleeping?"

So I can be your ghost, then. Since obviously I'm so much less, this is something i can allow myself to claim. a ghost, barely there, something you only remember in prescence. And then I would just haunt.

This distance inflicts such an incredible disease.

......

Today I spent my life with words. Hundreds of thousands of them. A library, land of books. They're always so conforting. There's stories I might never read, but people have still told them. So maybe that's all that even matters, that somebody has tried to make them heard.

The people who wander around that building like paper dolls are so beautiful. They settle for reading the words instead of commiting them to memory. Loliness prevails, and the silence is ignored. I swallow and my throat does something strange, it almost feels like I'm dying. To die right here. Now. With sentences left unsaid. The book I was told to write left unwritten. To end this instant, what wouldn't be mentioned?

I don't see it as such a tragedy.

......

Somebody I'm in love with thinks you're amazing. They know all about you, and the grievances given. Saw the pictures and thought you were beautiful. You are, you know. But your skin grays and in the morning after you don't sleep you seem dead. Walking dead. That's what you are, anyways. I'm just waiting for you to stop creeping around and quit walking.

My skin is dry and I remember talking about how I was scared you would die before you got to finish your sentences. Your skin is gray because we both know you're decaying, a living creature already rotting.

Our skin is failing both for the same reason.

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