Days are cheap nails being slowly self-driven into the coffin of my delusion that I will drift away from this pallid memory of you.
Did you ever really believe that this would work; that I could kill this final part of myself like I had successfully killed so many others? If you knew me as you said and I knew you did - you would have, should have known that this was lunacy and never meant to be - our un-being. You have not faded - you have only grown more and more radiant with every etching of every day dutifully erasing the dust, the cobwebs, the faults and fallacies.
Your erasing has done the very opposite of what you hoped, darling. You will be forever permanent, forever perfect - forever everything.
I fancy this a coy game I play with myself - that I like to pretend such poetic pain is becoming of me, and so I create all these contrived longings - not real - just set-dressing and ways to present myself to myself, but my delusion of being deluded is just that, and I feel this sink into my rusted bones deeper and fouler than the ultimate loss I suffered three years ago - something that can never be replicated, something that never should be replicated, something that will never be replicated.
You are the most beautiful scar, my love - and always have been.
