Black, matted hair, pale grayish skin, purple-blue bags under large bloodshot eyes, cold like ice and deeper than the deepest ocean. Deep enough to get lost in, to turn out everything that matters.

Too much. I reach forward, taking in a weak shaky breath. It’ll be the last time I see him. It always is. He won’t come back. He’ll look me in the eyes. He’ll smile at me widely, with sparkling white teeth and pale blue lips. He’ll tell me that everything is alright. That I can fuck myself. That he loves me. His lips are moving but make no sound. Silence. All I can hear is loud, overbearing silence.

Everything comes back. What he could say, what we could be. He’s my best friend. Lover, husband, master, worst enemy. He’s everything.

It’s dark. Black. Deep, silent black. And him. I smile. Everything’s alright. I’m alright.

I like pain. It’s okay. He isn’t telling me lies. Ever.

He is me. All of me is about him. So I’m him.

I don’t like myself. I love him.

Does it make sense? Probably not. Do I care? No. It is what it is.

No, no no no.

He can’t go away. But he will.

Then he turns around. His back is nice. He's wearing a white button up with a loose, dark blue tie fluttering in the non-existing breeze.

Without turning around, he lifts his right arm over his head, waving goodbye. He’ll be back soon. But he isn’t. He won’t come back. He never does.