Sometimes, I Write, in Solitude

All days are ordinary. My life is already made up of series of routines. Eat, sleep, bleed.

Sometimes, you would call. It still amazed me to see colors turn lively, far from the usual sickly pale during ordinary days where you choose to deprive me of a need. Your voice.

Sometimes, you will let me see you. You would prove to me for awhile that you are not a mere imagination, or a product of my mind whose specialty is creating perfect illusions. But then you'll disappear again. And I will go back to my other belief that you're really just an illusion, made to play tricks on my mind. Sometimes, the latter belief seems more believable.

Sometimes, you'll hold me. Sometimes I like it, at other times, I don't. I like it because I feel a different kind of warmth, the kind of warmth that makes me want to sleep and never to wake up again. Just like heaven. I don't like it because I long for it too badly when it's already gone. The painful kind of longing, like being undressed in a cold winter night.

Sometimes, I die. Because waiting is a form of suicide. Although you never promised to go back, you never told me about being us together, I still hoped and waited. You never promise nor tell anything, because you never had plans that involve me. I wish you knew that you shaped my every plans. I have no plans for myself, I only have plans for you, or for both of us. When you chose to ran away, my dreams in life have ran away with you. Now I'm dead.

Sometimes, I breathe again. Thanks to the memories you've left. They were the ones that keep me alive. Your memories revive me. Because in those memories, there were only us in the picture. It reminds me that true love doesn't always have a happy ending, because true love can be tragic, can be so miserable. Simply because true love doesn't have an ending. It's a happiness/sadness cycle.