There was a moment in time when I had blocked every feeling for you.
It was unconsciously done, because I didn't remember half of the events
until I found the journal hidden in an old shoebox.
It retold every moment with you, only different from how I knew it.
It told the truth.
You were the dream. You were the fantasy. And I wanted to keep you as such.
Every bad day, every mistake made where I was to blame,
I had somehow altered in my memory.
You were the hero, and I was the villain.
But you knew that all along.
Why did you stay? Why not escape the nightmare?
It was a vicious cycle that repeated itself daily.
And I never saw it coming.
Was I always too preoccupied to care?
I probably relied on you to fix my mistakes,
when they could have been so easily avoided to begin with.
And when you figured that out, you fled.
You disappeared, back to your own life, your own world.
And I carried on as if nothing had changed.
Because in my mind, nothing had. And nothing ever would.
I was greedy. I wanted it all.
In my eyes, you were only a dream.