Please stop asking

 me why I hate this world. 

There isn't light in my bedroom anymore. I’ve been looking at fences when I should have been looking at mountains. 

I don’t think you’ve lost like me. 

-I think; 

The sun still sets in the west. All the soil we toppled and kicked up with our shoes. The harmonious conversations still wait to return an echo stretched across the Napa Valley. 

I still exist somewhere along the fabrications of my mind, sorting your trash for the curb, conjuring the might to brace you for a final call. 

The rose you threw from the balcony rots. The flowers behind you; rot. I, rot. 

Some mean stare through a window in Pensacola.

I’d sometimes like to be talented enough to perfectly describe this feeling I had sitting with you at a cafe,

When you had told me it could all be real and square. 

I’d like to think those thoughts would just go away some day. 

And I wish you would too. 

I wished that you would die in a car accident last year. 

But fortunately that never came true. 

Now I sit as a peeling paint strip, flaked and torn onto terracotta flooring.

Behind a big life you apparently oh-so have. 

I am not big or healed by any case, 

I am alone and lagging on a rehabilitation overdue.

As I just am to forget tonight?

As I am supposed to love my world, without you?