my stomach hurts every time i think of you. a smell struck my nose today at my shitty job— yeah, i'm still working there. it was you, though. i knew it was intrinsically, like how you have knowledge in dreams you have no right to. your ghost wandered down the linoleum hallway bathed in sickening flourescents just to taunt me. is that all this is? did life send you my way, same stardust illuminating our glowstick veins, making us fall terribly in like with each others' echoes, only to tear you away?

you had a choice, you know. every day you stay willingly ensnared in the cobwebs of stagnation, the less of a choice you have. i tried to tell you this. i tried, i tried. maybe we're made of different stuff after all. it pains me. because that would mean there isn't some of you stuck in me, and nothing but my words cutting into you.

that would mean that this everlasting decade meant nothing at all. come home. the trees miss you. i miss you too, but that's not worth much.