Dreams Fuck You Up

I've forgotten what it's like to write words now. It's been awhile since I've tried to speak. I don't think you could hear the real words and truths behind every gesture of goodbye. They bid farewell, truly for forever. And it's not the not turning back which becomes the haunting last touch.

It's pictured at the back of a bus with street lamps blurring in the background. It's silent and we are the only ones here, sat at the very back on the top deck. We isolate ourselves and then you talk about how things are now murky and dark. You talk about how things can't get better and how things are fading.

I then ask: "What are you saying?"

That moment of hesitation feels like a void in time where senses were heightened, waiting...and then everything falls when the words tumble out of your mouth and I know it is over.

The bus stops somewhere behind Oxford Street and I decide I will disembark before my actual destination and catch the next bus. This is my final farewell to you. I remember that one last look and the bubbling anguish as I part with you for the last time. We cry. And suddenly I find myself standing on the pavement, watching the bus disappear from sight.

The next morning, nothing feels quite real. One side of the bed is empty and I try not to occupy it to pretend you are still there. I still remember the look in your light eyes as I left you on that bus and the way your hair was ruffled, wind-blown by the strong winds. But, despite the vivid image, you are now just a withered figure in my memory and knowing that you're no longer here makes you fade even more.