So you left. Well, technically, as far as you know, we both left. Too bad, I was hopeful. I wouldn’t ever have told you, but I dreamed of art gallery openings and falling asleep with nothing but messy paint splatters and laughter linking us. Well, such is the nature of art. Hopeful, violent, and evidently destructive. Don’t try to find me, because the last thing I need is to be found at my weakest. I almost wish I never told you who I really am, because now I can’t even call you a friend. I can’t call you a friend without being a bad actor. Without the stability of you, I’m a little lost. I’m not going to lie to myself. I’m going to be pathetically honest- I dreamed of being your muse, the one constant in the middle of the explosion of colors. It’s okay, because blue and red don’t always make purple. Sometimes, we get excited and we end up fucking with our pallets, staining our brains with the violence, the strains of faded chaos in the form of dye that won’t leave. We were short. Not even that long, so I have practically nothing to get over, right? Around people, I can joke. I can act like it never even happened. That is, until I see you. You. Wearing your hoodie that I both hate and love. I always hated the way it had no pockets, but I loved falling asleep in it in hotel rooms that we weren’t allowed to share. I loved the idea that I could be wrapped up in you yourself, how dare you walk in late, unexpected, half asleep, wearing something that used to be mine. I was in there, in that stupid hoodie, I’ve slept in there, and it being yours made me feel like it should be mine. Like you should be mine. It all hits too fast, because you were mine. you. were. mine. And I messed up, and I had you after wanting you for so long, and I let you go because I don’t know when to appreciate what I have. My friends are worried now, am I okay they ask. Yes, I’m fine. Of course, what else would I be but fine? It was mutual. It didn’t even last too long, I had nothing to lose. Perhaps it’s a good thing I never made it to one of your art walls, I would’ve hated being framed. Perhaps it’s a good thing your doodles stayed doodles. Undefined lines. When an artist tells you you’re hot, you take it. But when an artist doesn’t tell you he appreciates you, savors you, you get concerned. I don’t need to be concerned anymore. I had smudges of eyeliner under my eyes tonight. I couldn’t help it, and the temporary ink designed to make me look half awake came crashing down in feathery tidal waves that almost looked beautiful. But they weren’t. Just like when you left, I didn’t have to ask where you went. I don’t need to know anymore. Such is the simplicity of not needing to care anymore. You’re sick? Get well soon. Sickness is difficult. To be fair, loving you was worse.