Still...

Gone, alone and humble. A bag packed, traces of soft footprints on the carpet toward the door. That was the last we saw of her. You can't miss what was never there. My mile long guilt trips and acid trips and coke runs in the early morning sun won't be missed. Pray to a different God now, to take her back. The grounds are all frozen solid, it's the first snowfall of the winter and I have never seen a more beautiful sight and have never been more composed at the touch of death. Your divinity is lost within my gracelessness. Love for sale. This is my bucket of change. The cling-clangs of the fruits of my labor have finally paid off. I am two dollars richer and 10 pounds thinner. I have never looked so old. I used to chain smoke outside my bedroom window at night, watching the smoke disappear into the clouds that blanketed the stars, shielding them from my icy view. My hands would smell of tobacco, my breath stale and I had never felt more like an adult. Funny how addiction can do that to you. Don't identify, don't tolerate, just simply don't if you must. Don't-ing is commendable. That's why it's a word. The irony of life is that you spend the entire time awaiting death's knock at your door. Your number is up at the meatmarket. You're going to the sciencelab to be cut open like a goat's brain. And this is what we've been waiting for. Seems silly now, doesn't it. I wrote to you and you never knew it. One day you will find it, sitting amid meaningless notes and wadded up balls of paper on your desk. And you will read what you did to me. And you will shutdown, like at the touch of the robot's off switch. Heartless. Motionless in an attempt to save the world as it came crashing down like night's broken dagger. And I asked you to map it all out for me. If only.