I laugh with her in my dreams,
straining my eyes in morning light,
searching for her silhouette against the suns early rays.
I am reminded by the pain in my chest,
when the first breath of cold morning air hits my lungs,
that I am alone.
Lost and forgotten like so many others she has tossed to the wind.
I wonder if she dreams of me too.
Yet I know I have been replaced,
A missing brick in her foundation that held no unique value.
She has moved on,
her memory lives on only in the confines of my brain.
the only masochistic author I know,
addicted to it’s own pain,
infatuated with scripting tragedies.