First message
I’m laid out on the couch, cigarette slipping between my fingers, ash falling to the floor. I don’t bother moving. I just stare at the ceiling, counting nothing. When the cigarette burns out, I’ll light another. Tomorrow I’ll wake up the same, missing you, doing nothing but surviving the hours without you. Months of no contact and I’m still wrecked. I barely sleep, barely move. Friends ask me to go out—I can’t. Everything reminds me of you. Wondering if you think of me the way I do about you.