HOME | DD

Description
　　　　　Sometimes I wrap my arms around myself, right around my waist, and I pretend it's you. I try to imagine your scent, your feel. Your hands were rough and calloused, I remember that, but I didn't mind one bit. I can picture your smile perfectly, I have it memorized. I just like to pretend you're still here, you know? And I can so well that sometimes it makes me question consciousness. It's like a really amazing dream, except it hurts like hell and leaves you gasping for air when you wake up.

　　　　　I don't think I've ever wanted something so much, in my entire life. Nothing more than to just be loved by you again. Not even in a romantic fashion, no—of course, that would be preferred; but no, let's not get greedy. You don't even have to love me. You just have to think of me, sometimes. Acknowledge me, perhaps.

　　　　　It's so cold lately. I shift a little to position my face right in my knees, still clutching my sides as if it were to keep myself from coming undone. I burst out of that lucid dreaming state I was in with this movement, and curse at myself under my breath. I close my eyes, and try to get the thoughts back. The precious thoughts that had, moments ago, scurried from my mind.

　　　　　I hear you, you know. In the halls and on the stairs. They creak sometimes, I swear; those old, rotting floorboards. And that piano you used to play. You used to perform these beautiful melodies that would bounce off the walls and hypnotize me. Sometimes I find myself imagining that someone messing with those keys, running coarse hands over them like you used to. I can feel your ghost in this house.

　　　　　Hey, it doesn't hurt anymore. Isn't that great? Everything is empty, and I don't cry like I used to. There's just an absence in my chest. It's so much better than the aching that used to go on in there, and that pesky beating of my heart. Sometimes I miss that steady thumping, but when you aren't here, all it does is hurt, so I'd rather it be gone altogether.

　　　　　Do you ever think of me? Probably, maybe? I wonder if you're happy. I hope you are. You deserve that much. Did I make you happy? I mustn't have; otherwise you wouldn't have left like you did, I suppose.

　　　　　I lie to myself. I have this terrible habit of telling myself things that I know can't be true. Like that you'll come back one day, and you'll hold me how you used to. Because all I can do from my position is hope. The rest is your decision.

Description
　　　　　Sometimes I wrap my arms around myself, right around my waist, and I pretend it's you. I try to imagine your scent, your feel. Your hands were rough and calloused, I remember that, but I didn't mind one bit. I can picture your smile perfectly, I have it memorized. I just like to pretend you're still here, you know? And I can so well that sometimes it makes me question consciousness. It's like a really amazing dream, except it hurts like hell and leaves you gasping for air when you wake up.

　　　　　I don't think I've ever wanted something so much, in my entire life. Nothing more than to just be loved by you again. Not even in a romantic fashion, no—of course, that would be preferred; but no, let's not get greedy. You don't even have to love me. You just have to think of me, sometimes. Acknowledge me, perhaps.

　　　　　It's so cold lately. I shift a little to position my face right in my knees, still clutching my sides as if it were to keep myself from coming undone. I burst out of that lucid dreaming state I was in with this movement, and curse at myself under my breath. I close my eyes, and try to get the thoughts back. The precious thoughts that had, moments ago, scurried from my mind.

　　　　　I hear you, you know. In the halls and on the stairs. They creak sometimes, I swear; those old, rotting floorboards. And that piano you used to play. You used to perform these beautiful melodies that would bounce off the walls and hypnotize me. Sometimes I find myself imagining that someone messing with those keys, running coarse hands over them like you used to. I can feel your ghost in this house.

　　　　　Hey, it doesn't hurt anymore. Isn't that great? Everything is empty, and I don't cry like I used to. There's just an absence in my chest. It's so much better than the aching that used to go on in there, and that pesky beating of my heart. Sometimes I miss that steady thumping, but when you aren't here, all it does is hurt, so I'd rather it be gone altogether.

　　　　　Do you ever think of me? Probably, maybe? I wonder if you're happy. I hope you are. You deserve that much. Did I make you happy? I mustn't have; otherwise you wouldn't have left like you did, I suppose.

　　　　　I lie to myself. I have this terrible habit of telling myself things that I know can't be true. Like that you'll come back one day, and you'll hold me how you used to. Because all I can do from my position is hope. The rest is your decision.