All that’s left is the four

So maybe I’ll pick up the phone and call tomorrow.
<>I’ll say something witty after you realize who I am; something forgettable. the conversations of yesterday will never happen again unless we have nothing else to talk about. I’ll think of responses better than what fell from my mouth 3 years ago. you’ll think I’m greater than before and you’ll smile baring your teeth.
I’ll die a little inside and realize that my life is a circle drawn on black paper in my own blood. You’ll just leave me heartless; swallowing my thoughts in waves of nausea and euphoria. You always had a way of rendering me spineless in your palette; the combinations of rage and confusion to smear across my face effortlessly. I remember the way your hands would caress my self doubt and mold my days. Timid compassion transfigured to a dagger in my back, the crowning jewel of your masterpiece.

You gave me the best five seconds of my life when you smiled at me, your silence cast me to the gallows; but I swung with the best of them, didn’t I? Hang the portrait of my story upon your wall with a coffin shaped trophy box of countless innocent letters. I’ll rest inside the ink and paper; a blend of cologne, copper and ash that chokes your senses when reminisced upon; yet you always said we’d look back and laugh, I just didn’t that it’d be this hard.