"I spend my days in an endless loop of denial and envisioning that perfect wall built between my memories, and my nights empty, alone, wishing I at least got a text or a call, the tears breaking that wall back to the rubble it started at. You know, it sucks not getting anything when the silence used to be filled with so much. Having to get used to silence after what seemed like a lifetime of light is a good way to kill yourself without truly dying. The laughter and nonsense and the pain and tears, the ups and downs and big decisions. The talks about everything; sex, drama, losing, falling off the wagon, new dreams and hopes and fears, lamenting over past excursions gone wrong and bizarre circumstances that are as unlikely to occur as the moon taking the place of the sun. The nights spent laying in bed curled with a token of the persons presence, where you had but to embrace it and be rewarded with the knowledge that they were doing the same thing. The feeling of their hands in your hair, the smell of their cologne, the taste of their lips on yours. Home. A drug engineered specifically for you and you alone. Or so you thought. But things change, and in a matter of seconds everything you ever knew could be ripped from your soul, leaving a wound as raw and open and painful as a knife to your heart. And sometimes its your fault, not his or theirs or anyones. Just yours. And on top of the memories, you need to live with that. What if that wall isn't nearly strong enough?"
