I forgot that the colors I pick won't necessarily (and often don't) show up the same to the people who read here.

It doesn't matter much right now.

I'm drowning in peppermint memories. And it's her fault. It feels rather distant now, like a fading high.

But the traumatic motion that shreds through me with something as similar as a place we've been before, or something that for some stupid reason makes me believe she'd like it, or it would suit her...it doesn't leave me much to sleep with at night.

I can breathe it in, like perhaps it's as simple as death. She's been buried. She's just afloat with nature and love and somewhere we know that's better.

But it's not. Though if it were, it would probably be easier to inhale.

I'm usually better than this during the days and nights. It's not as if I'm "utterly abandoned."

I don't think about the ladder rungs that fall beneath my feet and leave me dangling at the elbows. I don't consider the promises made that I remember not to betray.

There's another girl I'd like to tell some things too, but she would crinkle her nose at the metaphors.

Beauty must be understood, or it's not beautiful.

But today lends me vulnerability, and little else. So I consider pain as gifts. I reason with myself over devotion as a crutch. I assist the jury in condemning me and implore them to abhor mercy.

Easier said than lived. I am still coherent enough to for-see the undoable that I am capable of.  I feel absurd, and that's her fault too. I thought I would be impenetrable when it came to such addictions. I thought I could be as callous as the streets and the night.

I can't even spell it out. I suppose that's the worst part. I can't look inside myself and find a justification for this.

That's why I feel absurd.

Am I so banal?

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