You aren't real. I buried you. And yet I see you every day.
Sometimes you'll be on a street corner, other times in the middle of the crowd.
What hurts the most is when I come home and you're sitting in your chair as if nothing ever changed. You look up with sad eyes and fade away.
You're haunting me and I hate you for it. I hate myself for letting it happen. I hate the circumstance that took you from me. I hate myself for everything.
It isn't my fault. I can't count how many times I've told myself that. It doesn't work.
I asked you one night if you could stay. I promised that I wouldn't tell anyone, that I just needed to see your face to remember that you were ever real. You didn't answer me, just stared at me with your fingers pressed together in front of your face. I looked into the fireplace and when I looked back you were gone.
I don't want to remember anymore. I want to be who I used to be, before I ever had a best mate. I want to be the old army captain, the limping, shallow shell of a man that could hold onto the emptiness that you filled so completely. I've nothing to hold onto now.
It isn't easy, going on like this. But what choice have I got?
So I'll just continue on, pretending I don't see you everywhere in everything. Pretending I don't question my sanity with every breath. Pretending I never cry myself to sleep.
Talking to a stone is a bit like talking to a mirror. All it does is show you what you're really made of. I am empty. I am broken.
And I owe you so much.
