You, you, you, and you.

You, you, you, and you.

1. I had a dream about me and you, who briefly were one. In real life, the last thing you wrote to me sounded like you were going back to him. I replied, telling you that I'd had plenty of chances to be a part of your life, and that now you had to do what was best for you. So in the dream, I was at a party at your house. You couldn't understand why I was so upset, why I couldn't enjoy myself there. I tried to talk with you, but other people -- all your friends, who knew everything -- kept getting in the way. I finally got you to go outside with me, and you kept leading me farther and farther away. Through an obstacle course. I fell farther and farther behind, and then you were gone. I woke up feeling so sad and alone. I can't even have you in my dreams anymore. And that's mostly my fault one.
2. When I woke, there was a message from you two. You felt foolish for bringing up a distant past where we were a possibility. You talked of illusions, how I was and how I was not. Lost in my sadness and loneliness, I tried to think of a way to make you feel better, and then I realized that you weren't really feeling bad anymore anyway. Or at least, not about us... because there was no us. That was the illusion, and it was mostly my fault two.
3. Alone again, I reached out to you three. I felt so sad, and yet so foolish and self-pitying. Knowing you had troubles of your own, knowing that you couldn't really do anything to help, and knowing that in the end that it was all up to me -- that I couldn't blame distanced friends for not doing more to help me feel better. And the distance is pretty much my fault three anyway. So I merely mentioned that I was sad, and told you about the song in my head when I woke up, Wednesday morning at 5 o'clock as the day begins. And before you even had a chance to read it, you sent me a message telling me you'd left for work, how bad it smelled where you were, and that you hoped I'd have a good day.
4. I came back inside and heard you in the bathroom. You are my problem, but really I am my problem. I couldn't tell you about any of it, but at least I wasn't alone. So I started making coffee, loud enough so that you'd know I was up and about, and waited for you to come around the corner and say good morning. I heard the toilet flush, and then steps on the stairs, and then the creaking of you getting back into bed. And I was still alone, and you had no idea how sad I was. I could have left without even waking you back up. But I'm still here. And you're still here and far, and nothing ever changes, and it's mostly my fault four being this way.