when i read what you write, i'd like to scream. your lack of direction was unappealing then and is infuriating now, and your words convey it just the same as they always did. all i miss, truly, is being the blank whiteness to which you threw your words and watched them curl away into whispers of smoke. i should have exploded instead.

how cliche i've been, lately.

this isn't about you, don't forget. this is what i remember, the oh-so-emo memories i have with you, lined with what you could have been, where we should have gone, all that fell away from us. everything here is true but not all of it is flesh.

tomorrow: happy birthday. i wish for your eyes to sparkle the way they did last year, but this time for something somebody somewhere else.