It's a pity really. If I cared for her more, I might feel sorry for her, but at that current moment her tiny minty mouth and too-soft lips worked with practiced ease as she pressed herself against me, dressed in her pink frills in an attempt to tantalize me. Opening my body up to her as we kissed did nothing for me, her draped arms upon my shoulders resting limply and her skilled tongue are just there-no feeling was roused within me. Even when I tug her hair and close my eyes

it just isn't the same.

It just isn't the same.

Barely hard and wholly frustrated, I pushed her lovely pale head away from me and pleaded for her to rest, rest and know that I still love her. I love her and I am tired (tired of her lips and cleavage and silken hair-the perfume that smells like crumbs of your sweets on the corner of your lips. I am tired of her. I have always been tired of her). I could see the doubt in her eyes even though her masks of false content are almost as good as mine. I know she watched me as I straighten my clothing and let her know I have work to do. She sat there with a strap falling off her shoulder and watches me go, knowing I did not love her (I do not love her).

"Are you lonely?" Her soft and caring voice asked gently. I stopped, shocked at her daring, and felt the cliché sensation of my heart stopping the flow air down my throat. I muttered an answer, my ever-working brain supplying something for me while I, my true self, sat arrested in motion. Quickly exiting towards the office, I closed the door with the mess of a being trapped behind it.

I discovered when I left her I could finally breathe again. I could finally breathe when my bones trembled from your darkened desperate voice flowing from the computer speakers. I have listened to that recording so often it surprises me. No one could feel your misery but me, could they? Did you know how it danced inside you, coiling your spine to knots and causing you to lose yourself in the boiling of blood as your clock ticked down in each sleepless night and…you knew your time was ending, didn't you?

You saw right through me, knowing everything. It's funny, you see, because there was only one thing that I ever uttered honestly, but you didn't believe me. That was the only error you ever made when analyzing me. The only mistake you ever made.

I never expected that I had underestimated my love for you.

God I want your voice inside me like a murmur in my mouth, an utterance shuddering in my ribcage. Over the nights, I think your monogram has been burned into my retinas. The screen injects the stark contrast into my memory and casts a filter, an illusion, the inverse image of your calligraphic identity playing on the walls.

Even when I close my eyes I see it still. Even when I close my brain I know you still.

Tentatively, like the first touch (the first real touch, the touch where I felt you and not just a body) I let my fingers ghost over the high-definition plasma screen and it feels empty, but it is better than nothing.

(I never told you how soft the soles of your feet were. I touched them once and found myself enraptured by how you walked so freely but they were not roughened. I never told you how each time your breath hitched my jaw bit down in agony of how beautiful you were. I never told you that when you told me I looked miserable when you touched me you saw the truth. I never told you that I hate myself entirely. I never told you how content it made me for you to lay your head upon my chest, listening to my heart beat as if to remind yourself I was alive.)

Light-kun

Sitting in the chair in front of the monitors, I heard nothing but the recording of my name repeated, the sounds becoming meaningless after a while, but they are yours-your syllables you spoke, and that makes them more precious than the world. I know I am being dramatic, I know, but can't you allow me this one dramatic moment of crumbling anguish before I move forward with my feet struggling to move in the mud of my own failures?

I clung to the screen like I once did to a blanket as a child. It was warm like you and I smiled at the thought and felt so thoroughly pathetic that a half-stammered cry blew across my lips. I did not know it was myself, at first. I do not know what I am doing anymore. I am no longer in control of my body. I know not what it does other than miss your touch.

The worst part is that I would not change my actions. How could I? I had to hurt you. I had to hurt you and had to "say farewell."

Light-kun

I banged my fist against the desk, pain jolting through my bones, accidentally jostling open a small drawer, the noise foreboding, and I found a note from you I did not realize I had. Written in your cursed delicate scrawl, a message from beyond the grave you wrote:

I can never forgive, but I will always love.

Again, a moment of non-abating terror seized me. I shoved the cursed paper back and stared at my hand as if it burned me, wiping away the fragments of you on my khakis. Stumbling back against the wall, I slid down to sit against it, head in hands and your voice still swallowing me up and the refreshing breath that it had given me was stolen from me again. One choked sob before I hit my head against the wall, staring at the ceiling in misery. And God, my hands were trembling so badly. They were shaking as I placed one upon my chest to coax the air back into my lungs.

"I finally got rid of you. I finally did it…so, why? Why can't I get you out of my head?"

Light-kun