I glance at random things in this house with whatever I have left in my eyes. Your possessions. My possessions. My rings. Your rings. Your room. That never-ending mess on your bed. I walk aimlessly in this house, hoping to not put my gaze on something that reminds me of you. That broken wooden strap of your chair, reminds of the little pause I have to take before I light a cigarette up. In that little pause you put your legs on mine, and lean on me. This blanket. This fucking blanket. I despise it more than ever. It’s starting to lose your smell. Everything’s starting to lose your smell.

I loathe every thing that doesn’t remind me of you. And I loathe every thing that does.

The water bottle. That beautiful question. The constant worrying about whether you’re having enough water. The lighters, the Vaseline tubs, the toasts. I look at them and I fall through them. And if I fix a gaze on something, I plummet into the never-ending memories of us. 

There are times I hate you for not being here. And day by day, it’s getting frequent. Maybe I’ll let you know that, or maybe I won’t. 

You are my addiction. And I swear on Dostoevsky’s soul, I don’t break my addictions.