The drywall looks like light peeking in through the dark paneling that covers my walls.
Like just on the other side, a brighter, more welcoming place exists.
But it's a lie.
This harsh realization is what slams be back into my room, laying on my bed with mismatched pillow cases.
Waiting for a text that will probably never come.
At least I hopoe not... Or do I?
I've done it again.
Done something in know I shouldn't.
Text someone I know isn't good for me.
Who my friends say isn't good for anything.
But like an alcoholic goes back for one little sip, I went back for one more conversation.
And like the sip that eventually turns into a fifth, most likely, this text will churn out another false sense of hope.
Hope that love really is enough.
It's something we've talked about more times than I can count over the course of five years.
"I love you."
"I love you too."
But it never works.
Too far apart, no one would approve.
These are the arguments that are presented.
What I hold back is "I don't like who I am with you."
So if that's the real reason why do I keep going back?
I'm wanted.
When no one else wants me, I can text a simple "Hey" and it will almost always escalate into a profession of love.
What's different about this time though, is I know in my very soul, there is no hope.
So maybe without it, it will end differently.
Am I just texting an old friend instead of an old lover?
The flames are out.
It's those pesky embers that sneak up on you.
