Nemophilist
Present
I like to pretend that when I’m cold at night, you are there to stay by my side. Drowning music seems to bring you back, but it’s not real. I know it’s not. Some say you were selfish, but I don’t think so. You couldn’t be here anymore, so you had to go. I sometimes go out to the cemetery to see your tombstone. There were several flowers there when I visited last time. The rain must have washed them all away now, eating at the rocks below. I don’t usually visit though, because what is the point when all there is left of you is an empty wooden box?