goodbye, my dearest saint of killing time.
you were nicer to me in my head, and you've got to realize that as you're making your way back to the table from the bathroom, i'm beginning to understand every disilliusioned bit.
but you know, dearest saint, that i loved you with whatever heart i had left. even with these moments of "give me something better to say." even with those seconds of clammy hands. even with this bitter end.
you're sitting just across from me and telling me about your job, about your new prospect, about the nuances of friendship. but you haven't even asked how i'm doing, and you don't seem to care that you don't know how quickly i'm dying.
cause you seem to think that things haven't changed, that you've still got me on that bright green string of yours, tugging when you need me.
at least, i know. for all the talk we have about the way things should have been, could have been, and actually were, it can't contain a fraction of now. i'm tired of falling for the same old tricks. i'm sick to my stomach from the advantages you've taken from me.
and so this is goodbye, isn't it, my dear saint of killing time? do we have to make a big deal out of it? do we have to push this to the brink of destruction? i guess, with your nature, we do, don't we?
and that's sad for me? because i'd rather be done with this and have something to show other than a stack of wasted canvas and broken pens. but we've had our good times, and i'll let go of that as soon as i can.
i guess we win some and we lose some.
but know that i'll always love the good way you never treated me.
