My eyelids urge to drop, almost as if they were weighed down by an anchor, being yanked to the unknown depths of darkness.
     

It's funny at how the wee hours of the morning, your common sense is completely lost, and the effort you put into muting your anger, your sadness, your everything, is completely lost. 
     

You start thinking about the small things, first.  How it wasn't your fault.  No one was to blame in the situation, it just was wrong timing.

       You still have some sense.  Some.
       You transition to the personal things you told them.  The embarassing things you did or told them.  Did they tell their friends?  Did they laugh at you behind your back?
       No, they wouldn't!  You don't do that with the things they told you! 
       But maybe you're different?  Maybe they do that...
       

I have pulled myself upright, sitting cross-legged.  I am balanced between my pillows and my bed, which happen to be under the large window in my room.
       

I pull the curtains apart.  My view consists of a retainment pond, a fairly large road, a medical marijuana joint, an old, rusty pub, and a little market.  Nothing but heavy forest, and hills beyond that.
     

The moon illuminates my maroon pajama paints, making them look silkier than ever.  The streetlights add to the "thinking about you" affect.  It's disgusting how cliche this all seems.
     

I think about all our inside jokes.  All our moments. We didn't talk much in person, but our texting conversations that went deep into the night were hella intense. 

There's a heavy feeling in my chest.  It feels kind of prickly as well, like when your foot starts waking up, but with a mix of that feeling when you have phlegm in your lungs.  Not an amusing feeling, can tell you that much.
     

I run my hands through my hair, as I think about your smile.  Or how your voice got high-pitched when you got passionate about a subject.  Or how you would always randomly throw weird compliments into arguments about petty things. 
     

But I start to think about the feeling I got when you talked often about her.  You insisted you guys were friends, but I knew something wasn't right.  I start to realize that feeling was the same chest feeling I got.  I have to remind myself how much you loved me so. How good you were to me.  I have to remind myself that we made a comprimise so you could say you loved me more without me saying, "Hold up."
     

When I feel the moon has fully flown over me, telling me the night is almost over, I have to force myself to go to bed.  I have to force myself to forget you and what you did for me.  Part of me knows that I still miss you.  But part of me also knows I could do so much better.  That same part of me knows that I have found new people for me to swoon over.  And I have finally come to a conclusion:

      I don't miss you, but miss the idea of you.
      And for one last time-
      Slay the dream beasts.