"Is it too late to talk?" 

You made me want hydrocodone. You made me want to write books that will cut you by the hinge of the newly printed papers as much as you have encouraged me to. You made me want to run away from here to somewhere very far away. And you don't realize that.

"...it's all fictitious." 

I used to think I set a fire in your eyes but I've learned that was just the reflection of the one you set it mine. I'm sorry, for thinking that maybe I could stop pretending to be happy to make you pleased. But now that I have assassinated you with lies and professed everyone that you were of deep silence [when the truth is, you're fucking louder than meteors grazing the universe if sounds were audible outside Earth], I'll understand your disappearance.

"The way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive." 

I have forgiven you, though. Some things are made to fall apart in the end, I suppose. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, everything will be alright... Sometimes I have this desire of calling you at 1 in the morning, so that maybe no one will figure the cracks in my voice while I listen to yours, but then I remembered that things have fallen apart, and that we're not the same people we used to be.

I'm sorry for insanely writing this over a hard heart.

*sips hydrocodone*

Hydrocodone: narcotic pain relievers