i stare at the phone and trace the digits with my fingertip, planning to call you. i cannot bring myself to press the keys, to dial the number. i suspect that you hate me, but i do not know what it is i've done. my messages go unanswered, my calls have been unreturned, and i do not think that i can deal with the surge of hope that goes along with each message that i leave because it just crashes and descends, leaving traces behind, making me feel three times worse because that hope is gone.

i stare out my window at four a.m., studying the way the street lights illuminate the streets, and give mysterious powerful shapes to trees and shrubs, to cars sitting idle and quiet in driveways, and wish that you were driving down that street, with the promise of rescuing me from all of this right on your smile. but the streets stay empty until the sun comes up and extinquishes all that mystery and leaves my hope echoing silently inside.

and suicide seems like too much effort, an action, which is more than i can muster any more. seems like all i can do is lay in this bed and stare at the ceiling, imagining another life, another world, wondering what i have done to deserve this, when i never did anything wrong. at least not on purpose. i never broke promises, i never tried to hurt you. and yet here is my end results, and it leaves me so drained, so alone, that i cannot even end this.