It has been almost three months, but it feels longer. Only about twelve weeks, or eighty-four days, or two thousand sixteen hours, or one hundred twenty thousand, nine hundred sixty minutes, give or take. Since we faded like daylight on a long day. What was it that ruined us?
It has been almost three months, and I'm the lost card in the deck now. You have your place; it's just no longer next to me. I'm beginning to wonder why you disappeared without a single whispered word, no goodbyes at all. A fight would give me the closure, now, but what is there to fight about?
It has been almost three months, and now I'm starting to see what you must've seen. Cracked mirrors show what I had hidden for so long, the fragile underneath. You look so happy with them, better than you used to. No more dead weight, but I keep wondering: why did you pretend to be so close to me?
It has been almost three months, and your gaze doesn't hover over my hollow form anymore, like it used to. Your touch, once searing hot, would certainly freeze and shatter me. Not that you would touch my melted, rotting skin with that perfect crystal hand. Why couldn't I have changed? How could I do nothing as you left?
It has been three months. I'm tired now, though.
It has been three months. Giving up.
Three months. It was all my fault.
Three months. No longer.
Three months.
