congratulations, you've graduated

I think you're an exaggeration. A figment of my sick imagination. Sometimes I want you to not be real. I want you to be a specter, a wraith of dissipating cruel intentions. It's sick. It's sick how sometimes I can't comprehend things unless they're steeped in the context of you. How sometimes things remain just beyond my grasp because you're not there to give them a little nudge in my direction. How sometimes your absence makes me feel helpless and alone, just because. You can't be real. Sometimes I don't want you to be real. You and your friends. You and your letters, your relentless platitudes and your pointless sentiments. You and your artifices. You and your deep thoughts and your cloying eyes. You and your fake Friendster accounts. You and your random phone calls. You and your cologne. You and your putrid poetry. Your words. And it really is sick how I still think about you. How I unconsciously reference things to you. It makes me feel weak. Maybe I'm giving you too much credit. It sure feels that way. You're just so beyond everything now. Beyond my emaciated circle of friends, beyond my general comprehension, beyond my petty universe. It's almost pointless. Maybe I'll always feel something for you, raisin. Right now, that something is beyond love and hate. It's something small. Something cold and small. But it's there. Because you taught me things.

Have a nice life.