It's night time. I'm sitting at my desk--it's covered in books, stacks and stacks of them. The glossy screen of my monitor is before me but aside from the blinking cursor, it's blank.
I never IM anybody besides you, you know.
When it's late like this and the house is dark and quiet and no one else is awake but me I can't help but think about you. About the countless times we talked--over IM--for hours. How sometimes at 3 in the morning in an exhausted haze I felt like nothing else existed in the world but me and you--my words traveling hundreds of miles over the airwaves to where you sat on your bright red couch, barefoot, head covered by your hoodie, a scratchy beard covering your chin...you're drinking rosé because it's classy, or because it's what writers drink, or maybe it's all you have in your apartment. Maybe you've dug up some whiskey and are pleased by the color of it in a highball glass, the light catching amber and silver, the ice cubes clinking. Maybe you even light a cigarette just for the hell of it, to break the monotony or the silence, pondering your next words to me before your fingers skip across the keyboard, misspelling. Always misspelling.
Undoubtedly you'll say something that pisses me off, something that reiterates how cold you are, how alone and indifferent you are, how you don't need anyone. But before I can respond with some biting remark you'll temper it all with something that warms me or brings tears to my eyes, the old "save me/ leave me alone/ let me drown" push-and-pull thing that sucks me back every time.
Tonight the screen is blank.
