He's just a phantom. I like what we could have been, what we were for one month. (That one month we both went crazy; one spent time in a hospital, the other with a bottle.)
So now we're stuck. In a relationship, in an addiction, in a dead end job with nothing but hours ahead of us. What's ahead of us? Not each other.
There are worse ways to spend my time.
I am going to continue to miss you because you amuse me, muse. You give me dreams that lead to poems that lead to short stories that lead to me potentially thinking that I am a writer. I am all about the potential; I will not follow through.
(I am still here, I am still here, you are gone.)
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