"It was a mistake."
"I was drunk."
"It will never happen again. I promise."
"But I love you."
The most vivid memory I have with you is crying after an argument where you made all of these statements. Also, I don’t exactly remember which time I remember because, let’s face it, I cried a lot with you and you used these phrases a lot. Remember that warm July evening when I claimed I wasn’t much of a crier? I guess that’s why you accused me of being the liar. Or maybe you were just projecting. Actually, I know you were projecting because I’ve done a lot of reflecting on us.
Things were sour because of me. At least that's what you led me to believe, and you were never wrong, right? I remember sitting on your bed waiting for you to say anything, but you were too busy distracted by your phone ringing. It was her again. At least I assume it was based on the way you'd turn your phone over after each message was sent.
There was a time we were happy and you called my body a temple. I'm starting to realize it was probably because I was similar to an unconditionally forgiving god. I had to be if I wanted "us" to work. When I couldn’t give you the attention you wanted (because I was bettering myself miles away, but that didn't matter to you) you decided it was easier to live in her, to idolize her instead because she was tangible and easier to believe in. So you made her your temporary home, but she was sort of like a beach house or something. She was beautiful, but she was just somewhere you'd take a vacation while everyone else was away. Like a vacation though, you'd always come home. I was your home, and that's what mattered, right? Wrong.
You were still "glad" to have such a stable place to stay, though. You said everything felt safe, but that's probably because I was empty real estate. No one wants an empty place that's been stripped of everything good, especially when the owner refuses to change the locks, and the hidden key was kept in the same place under some very obvious rocks. Those rocks marked the place that we'd claim to bury the hatchet, but it really stayed in my in spine because of the many times you'd lie.
You told me a while ago that you couldn't get me off your mind, but how can that be true when I was off of it long enough for you to be on her. I was good to you. I worshiped you like religion, but you went from a god to a skeleton. I turned my hollowed out chest into a graveyard and that's where I keep you. My heart is a coffin for our dead future and old, broken promises. The mourning will pass and everyone knows people eventually stop visiting the graveyard. You stop revisiting the old memories and leave them buried. And that's what will happen to you.
So I guess what I'm saying is you're dead to me. Your absence hurt for a while, but it faded just like the memory of you. So no, I don't want to be your friend because you can't befriend the dead.
