Her scent on the pillow, it drives me wild. I want to fall asleep to it, nuzzle up next to it and drift away, dreaming of rainbows and cupcakes and running through the sprinklers on a hot summer day in July but it’s gone. It’s like she was never here. The beer cans by the chair? Cleared up. The pretzels on the floor? Scooped up. I have this eerie feeling that the end is near. It’s coming. Her part in my story might be wrapping up but I still have more to write for her, storylines I want her character to go through with me, the unreliable narrator. Scenes that are supposed to play out, at midnight on the edge of the beach, in the sand writing messages to aliens, tired but pushing on to make it to sunrise. I want to make it to that sunrise but I’m afraid I’m staring at a sunset with darks times in front of me. A sunset that covers her in darkness and clouds her from my sight, I'm unable to see her and she won't remember me. We'll just be foggy memories to eachother, ships on opposite sides of the world searching for eachother but going the wrong way. I'm always going the wrong way.