I’ve done it again and I shouldn’t have. Tell me, if you were me, would you take a chance on someone? I did. I’ve grown attached, your dark demeanor drawing me in closer and clouding up my memories.

I have managed to create an entirely unrealistic world inside of my head, where we both occupy space. However, in the real light, mutual understanding of what we are isn’t clear.

You can only try so much, I can only try so much. Communication begins to thin, and I keep spreading it thinner like it’s going to help, one day, it’ll rip.

Then, bam. There is a hole and said hole will keep getting bigger and bigger because that’s how it starts. Yet, here I am I’m standing over the hole with a shovel in my hand attempting to throw new soil on top of the hole to make it better.

You asked me before if I’ve ever tried and I haven’t. I have never wanted to. It was pointless then, I even knew it. So, I didn’t. But now, now I am.

I’m lying in that hole, the one that keeps getting bigger no matter how much I fill it, and I can tell you that it is cold down here. Lonely, too. I now understand this, after all, is a grave. I cannot stop the inevitable, things like this die and we cannot revive them. We must bury them and find peace.

I’ll grieve. I’ll grieve every day, placing flowers on the grave until the grass has grown and taken over its space again. You, you don’t grieve. You’ll feel sad, but you won’t grieve. Grieving will seem minuscule in your world because you take on so much more than I.

The outcome remains the same, you could spot it from the beginning. My only advice to you: Dig your own damn grave.