I have tucked you away, behind dusty bookshelves and locked doors. And filled myself up with the past, to pretend that I am not made of stale air and longing.

It is the only place that is beautiful enough to write about, where the sunlight filters through the open window, and your arms wrap sleepily around my waist. Anchored in this reality, I walk the earth blind.

I write, bleeding and frenzied, to keep this place alive, because I am not ready to let go of the only world where you still love me.

And when insanity comes knocking on my door, I will welcome him with open arms and one thought,

"Oh, how I have missed you."