Hello, goodbye. Whenever you want. Love or die, that's all the options I've got. A window is where I look through to see what you do. Daily, weekly, yearly, fondly do you do these busy things you do. You come home late, say hello Talk about your day, talk about your highs and lows.
And do I have to say? Nothing. For I am your figment.
You ask me if I still do, I say yes, holding forever in my heart. But what impact does that hold to a busybody like you?
But without this past, you are hardly home. In fact this is not your home anymore. You only comeback when you can, just because of pity just because of regret just so maybe you can still fix the little ebbing in my heart to fix the reason why there still might be a ghost of me left somewhere.
And this I am, You very special figment.
You say you still do, in the most vague ways. But I obviously don't stand a chance to her ways that amaze.