Children can shout for only so long to take away your thoughts, they can argue their adulthood or their right to choice for only so long for it to become cloying. There are too many things to consider, too many absences to really forget in order to escape under the clutches of fun. You pervade my thoughts, you wring my happiness dry, you pervade my image of what happiness is; you enforce the reality because you know only so well the illusions I conjure and dwell in. Is it cliche to admit that I feel whole in the space of your love. Felt. That I can scream eternity saying I can't do without you. And that is the punishment, isn't it? That that which I must do to atone is something inherently selfish, that I may loathe myself. It's all in my head, you do not Reply want me to loathe myself: how much longer can I run these circles? See the truth and make it false. And know. Knowledge, awareness; I reveled. I prided my self deprecation and admonishment, until it has been rendered inane. Are you of a strength so alien to me? Or is weakness, an emotion I cannot make yours for it is a betrayal. Can I down cement knowing when I feel rotten and shrunken inside I might want for myself a different fate? Can I reject my absolute reverence for human fickleness. You have done it, E, you have romanticized death. The children are eating, but they're done and they're well rested and they're screaming in the dining room for me, they're getting me, I'm roaring and running on all fours and sweating. I'm thinking: I'm happy. But then I'm back here, with a pen and a paper, feeling awfully repetitive and yet choicless, because you're gone and here I am. I pushed you and yet can't make the same fall. Am I to suffer forever in the knowledge that I perform so aching a task so I can revel in its anger and disappointment and hate, so I cannot confront you. You're gone and I'm not, and yet you're in every space you occupied; I see you. You are the death of me, you are me, you are dead. Are we one?