Night Time

Night time is the worst. In the day time, I can mostly, most of the time convince myself that you aren’t worth missing. That my memory is failing me and we weren’t as good as I thought. At night, I have no one to talk with, to distract myself with. The house is too quiet, even with “The Office” on, and I relate too well to Bojack Horseman. No one is awake to chat with me, and all I can do is remember. In fragments. Exhausted.

There’s a party or something up the street, a man yelling “One, two, three, shot!” intermittently, they howl and laugh obnoxiously. Secretly i long to join them. Sedate me with alcohol.

I’m always the one worth leaving. People don’t bother to keep in contact and it hurts like fucking hell. It never gets easier. Neither does missing you at night when my head is exhausted and runs a race, forming a rut, the same thoughts and conversations repeated over and over and leaving me dazed and shell shocked.

Tomorrow, I think I’ll look into how to do yoga. Maybe that will do something.

But I won’t be getting any sleep tonight. You sleep peacefully, always a deep sleeper, and I never ever cross your mind. You cross mine all the time.

About masterpieceofadisaster

Alias: Kuckoo Savant
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