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delusions of grandeur. You fed them and let me believe
that I was every bit the artist I saw in the reflection of
your adoring eyes.

I haven't slept in three days. It doesn't even seem to
affect me. I can't remember the last time I ate. I often
wonder if I'm even still alive, or if I simply passed away
without noticing and have been trapped in a personal hell,
just working and thinking I can bring you back. If only
that were true, it might be better than this.

I remember when the newspaper first mentioned me.
You excitedly ran and showed me the little snippet of text.
It didn't mention me by name, of course, but the fact that
I was recognized, even a little, was enough to send me
into my workshop for a week. You stuck through that
phase too, forcing me to eat and reminding me to rest.

At night we were like new people. Once my skin
touched yours, all thoughts of work and art and bills and
unhappiness were gone. You would lay in my arms and
never move, never disturb me. Sometimes I wonder if you
ever really lived here, or if you were just another dream. I
dream more now about you than I ever did, even without
sleep.

The morning you left was, by all appearances,
beautiful. The windowpane let in a moderate glow, and
the world was just as warm outside of the covers as it was
under them. I stretched and sprung from bed, feeling
particularly inspired by the day. You never came in to
bring me lunch. You never said goodbye to go to work. I
didn't notice.

When I finally realized it had been far too long
without seeing you, I walked from the garage into our
kitchen. A note on the counter: "I can't do this anymore."

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