It's not a cry you can hear at night, it's not somebody who's seen the light.

It's still not good enough.

I can't remember if it ever was.

I wonder if hoping makes that which I ache for less likely to occur. I wonder if the wishes I send attached to shooting stars are also disintegrated while tearing through the unforgiving atmosphere. Lucky pennies are worthless. Four leaf clovers are just anomalies. Blowing out birthday candles spreads wax on an already inedible cake. Eyelashes falling out is merely madarosis. Blowing out the seeds of dandelions just spreads tenacious weeds that will suffocate the delicate grasses and blooms, rooted loosely below.

But if wishes never come true, maybe there's no reason to keep them secret.

A rogue draft just brought a wave of your candle's aroma, inhaled sharply and exhaled in nostalgic sigh. The sweet concoction of coloured wax, born on a cradle of twisted metal. Something created in the cold nervousness of winter. Burned only once, leaving a black scar on the exposed wick. I've always wondered what would have happened, had I let it continue to burn.

"Never that which is shall die." Euripides

It has seeded within my mind. With roots that grip my memory and imagination. The idea that if it was, it will be. Everything has a degree of permanency. And I never need to let go. For nothing is ever completely gone. Because doors never close.

But if doors never close, sometimes, things can come in without warning.

Misery does not knock. It is light on it's feet. It has cold fingers and uneven hair that falls over a misshapen skull. It's cheekbones are protruding in the most unfavourable way. They are stained with tears that dried where they fell. The skin feels tight in these places. It moves like a snake, slipping into crevices of the soul, where it plays battleship in the dark against the centres of ones mind. Emotions have been hit. Logic is long since sunk. It's toenails have a yellow tinge, but you can't see anything but grey. There's only sound. Last words, ghostly footsteps in rooms that used to fill with light. The things that people say to make you feel better. Bad news over the phone. The kind that makes your muscles go limp and your lungs fall flat. Doors that close too loud. Insincere laughter. "Nothing." Misery has a way with words. It's convincing and charismatic. It's nose is razor thin. It can make give memories heartbeats. Heartbeats that have long since stilled.

I no longer believe a heartbeat is required to be alive.

I hope the rain doesn't bring doubt. I hope I never feel that familiar sickness. I hope she never gets a call, with a runny nose and a broken heart on the other end. I hope long distance calls don't add up and the dates don't become more infrequent. I hope I can hold it together, that there will still be grand gestures and easy nights. I hope the nights aren't as hard as I think they will be. That I'll still factor into your life, and we'll say goodnight every night. Strange things are becoming important. Like pictures. Suddenly, all I want are pictures.

Two hundred and thirty eight days. Venus will have orbited the sun once.

I hope I'm what you are looking for.

I just realized how much I'm going to miss my cat.