Dear Johnny

Stay

When you said you'd be fine on your own, I believed you. As if nothing you could ever say would be wrong, I believed you.

God, why didn't I just stay? Why didn't I just make you come with me?

Ya know, I could write poems or sonnets or whatever the hell all these heartbroken saps write when they lose someone. I could cry myself to sleep and curse the God that has already damned me to hell; I could end it all and put a bullet in my head.

But I won't, Johnny. I won't do any of them. Because all I seem to be able to do is hate myself and hate you and then realise after I've trashed the place in a fit of rage that the hate towards you was only the panging of a broken heart misread.

All I can do is scream at the star lit skies, cursing fate, cursing myself. Scream to the moon how much of an asshole you are until my voice is hoarse and I'm shaking so bad that I can't stand anymore. Then I curse some more because it's all you fault I ended up this way.

But it's fine. Hating you is fine. I realised somewhere along the line that, "I hate you" has become my, "Sorry"; "Fuck you" has become my, "Stay."

And I fucking hate you, Johnny. I wish that I could hold you now, but my sheets are colder than a midnight dream. My chest feels like it's hollow, and as cliché as that sounds, it's the only way I really know how to describe it that makes any sense.

It's easier to say than some of the things I could.

Like how heartbreak is gun shots through the small black speaker on a plane; how my life ended when I realised the last thing you said to me we're a few hasty words, saying goodbye. Like how I'm reminded of how broken I am just by the smell of your shampoo.

Johnny, I swear I can hear the water running; I'm begging you, just stay in there a while longer.

Let the steam of hot water fog up the mirror of my sanity. Let the condensation smear the watercolour of my design. If letting myself believe that you're still alive is what it takes to make this pain go away, then fuck being sane.

I can hardly breathe.

And your things are exactly how you left them; I haven't touched a thing. The radio is tuned to your favourite station and the thermastat is at sixty because I know you like it so damn cold. The penthouse smells like toast and that one apple candle that Shaundi got you for your birthday ( God, it was funny how that was supposed to be a prank but you ended up loving the damn thing so much that you ran it down and had to get another one).

My point is that everything is how it should be, Johnny. Just like it's always been, only you're missing. So, please. Please tell me you're coming home.

I'll believe anything you say.