• I press my nose against the window and cloud it with anxious breath. The car keeps driving. I turn around and sit down for the 7th time that hour. So much time spent waiting. Waiting for someone to call, someone to believe, someone to arrive. Someone to leave. Fingers leave marks of pumping hearts on prefect panes. I keep on saying I don't care if they ever call. Although I really do, but you already knew that, didn't you? You know the way my head works; you know what I think of when I lay awake in bed at night, trying to stay so still that I can feel my heartbeat in my palms. I hate being so transparent to you. Honesty? What use is honesty anymore? You are slamming doors and holding your head in your hands but it's not doing anything to help, these things you could never control. Why would I even bother placing a shaking hand on your shoulder and speaking to you in my quivering voice when I know it's the last thing on your mind? That is why I am leaving and you are heaving up your late dinner, sitting on the curb outside your father's old house. That's why I am choking as I try to walk home. That's why I don't make it the whole way without stopping to sit down and compose myself. Why don't you believe me when I tell you I love you? Why do you think so little of yourself? Why are you wasting your summer drinking your parent's cheap wine and sleeping all day when you could be out wandering with me? You are better than you give yourself credit for, but not for long. Once your intelligence atrophies, once you become a self-pitying piece of shit, that's when I'm done. I've seen what you can do to yourself, and I won't be a part of that ever again. Oh, and time! Without the steady heartbeat of the clock on your warped walls, perhaps you would wake up and learn to walk though the empty summer streets again. But until then I will be waiting… Your face is slowly growing pale and blurred until there is nothing left of your features but smudges on a smooth-skinned canvas. You reach out to calm me but I shy away from your empty touch. I am watching you flail blindly at the air, seeking out my face with hands that bear no fingerprints. Is there any way you can grow feeling for me? Typewriter pages are flowing from your mouth and I am pulling them out one after another, reading through all the conversations we used to have when we were in love and I was happy and you were alive. Where did all this pavement come from, and why am I laying on it? My arms are covered in paper-thin scars from running through the woods to reach you, and they remind me of the time before lies and death. I am backing away from what remains of you standing before me as I read. Suddenly I turn and hold your rigid body as tight as I can. I caught a glimpse of a word, a glimpse of a promise. "Always."

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