the death of me.

Someone needs to tell my heart that you're gone. The bloody fool clings to every word you ever said to me and refuses to let you go. You left a while ago. I can, though, still see the damn seconds printed on my skin and the twisted minutes carved on my torso. I guess that means it hasn't been long enough.

My foolish heart, however, keeps on waiting and wishing, sitting by the fogged up window, certain that you'll walk by anytime soon. He is naive, I would say. He trusts that you didn't mean a word you said that day. He keeps whispering to my brain jiberish like "he was delusional at that time" or "he will come to his senses"; hoping that the so called reason will help him in this charade. My mind refuses to listen to him, thankfully. It claims that he has been under your spell for too long and therefore, can't judge anything properly or fairly. That stubborn heart of mine just won't give up, no matter how many times I tell him to.

Seeing how tormented I was by his gesture, he did promise to stop breathing on the cold window and I haven't seen him looking around in a while; but I could have sworn that, during another crazy dream of mine, my brain uttered that the heart kept sneaking around to see your shadow outside. He was just more careful now, making sure I would never catch him doing it, because surely he knew his constant waiting for you would be the death of me.