I still remember your favorite ice cream, and the way you smelled, and I’m obviously not taking enough pills to melt you away tonight.

I lost track of the time as soon we turned on the TV. The lights and sound just served as background noise; my attention was all yours, and you knew it. We were laying down together on my couch, me the big spoon and you curled up with your head resting on my arm. Your hair was covering my face, but I didn’t mind. I love how your hair smells, how all of you smells. You would periodically turn your head and kiss my arm, and every time you did I couldn’t help but smile like an idiot. My other arm alternated between rubbing your stomach and scratching your back. I swear, you were just like a cat, making little noises to let me know where you liked being touched, and then making it even more obvious where you really liked being touched. I had learned most of your preferred spots, but there was always more. More ways to touch you, a different finger here, a swift stroke there, a gentle hand followed by a tense grab, and you reacted to everything. I etched you into my everything, contoured my soul to better suit your desires.

But now that couch is empty, and my hands are cracked and rough, and my soul is aching from the stress of trying to just hold on. My senses are failing me one by one, as if the lack of seeing you every day has caused my vision to blur everything else together, as if I can’t ever wake up and smell the roses, as if every noise is now a tree falling alone in the woods, making me question if I’ve ever heard a single sound before you while I ignore the phone for the hundredth time this year because I haven’t heard a sound since you. I’m eating away my feelings because I don’t know what it means to feel full anymore; I feel bottomless, so I just shovel everything I can reach into my mouth, and I don’t even know what I’m doing because it’s all just the same thing; never enough. I burned away my fingertips, cut away my soft skin, marinated myself in self-pity to the point I am always stuck in the shower, scrubbing with water I assume to be hot, feeling nothing but a sense of guilt in my gut, praying I’ll just keep sinking and sinking until I reach the bottom, where no light or air can reach me, and I’ll fade away before I ever have to wake up again.

What do humans do with all of this old, now useless, knowledge? Most people will retain it for a time, some information sticking around longer than other bits, and they use it to learn, to grow, to move on. They don’t replace everything they have with a single point, a single mass. People are collectives, so what should you expect when you discard down your hand to leave just one card? Well, you just pray that card isn’t the Joker, or else you’re just plain out of luck – but it’s not luck, since you made the conscience decisions, right? So it’s not luck, but stupidity in the highest form, akin to Russian roulette with a semi-automatic gun. You are making the choice to die, here and now, and painting it as this portrait of fun and games. Keep them all laughing. Keep the room entertained. Keep your head held high, then come to realize… the room is filled with only mirrors, that the laughter is scratching glass, that your head is still attached to your neck, but it’s coming off awfully fast…

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