here it is.

The mornings like these, where I had set out to do all of the things I needed and not give in to sleep, but sleep took over my body and now I have nothing done, do not make me feel good.

I listen to the songs that say the things I wish I could.
I write your name over and over inside of my head and wish that it would just disappear.
Like a wispy cloud on a summer day, I wish who you were to me would just reshape with the breeze and slowly dissapate.
Not that you would actually be gone forever, because you would come back like nobody's business in the wintertime, much as has happened, but when you returned, I hope the notion of you will be something worth smiling about.
Or something of a nuisance as I set my umbrella on to full guard against the sky and the pounding, repetitive words tap tap tapping against the material used for shields.

But instead, I stand here in the rain, under the sky of stubborn clouds and droplets, and have forgotten my umbrella by the door with my pride.
Your words are reverberating within the confines of my aural system and I want to shake the lonely from me, but I can't when I know that words are just words and what has taken place will leave me where I have placed myself blindly.

It's funny, because I had always told you that the showertime was when my brain was at its best; when it formulated the most wonderful, undisturbed thoughts. So is this downpour against my scalp some sort of irony? If it is, then thank you.

Thank you for bringing out the worst in me.
Thank you for the idea that I am nothing short of absolutely ugly, inside and out.
Thank you for the point that my words are meaningless.
Thank you for creating a coffin of my body; a resting place for who I was a little happy to be.
Thank you for the lies that wrote the best words I could let fall from my fingertips.
Thank you for bringing me across this line of the world that I was terrified of, and leaving me there.
Thank you for everything,
because without it I could never compare happiness when I work myself back over to it in its most honest form.

I still have time to sort out the love from the hate in what has happened, but it's a slow and sometimes reversible process.

Here's to another Monday I wish you were here, but not really.