Letter to the Dead.

Teetering on the edge of something. I feel like I'm trapped in a dream where I am naked. I try to cover it with my palms but I cannot. Everyone can see in to my glass house.

You're watching me and I can see your face contort into a cringe from my end. But how much can we trust things seen through glass? Are they real? Are you real? You're real enough. You'll hurt me, you'll judge me, as much as I try to tell myself that you're just empty space. You're still empty space with a face.

I tell myself that your face isn't really there. It is just air distorting, a ghost of a physical body. A memory of what used to be and what isn't now. That is all you are. But so am I. The past, the past projected into the present. We've stamped out image into each others' lives.

When you drive your car up the highway and you see a girl dragging along. She'll have my hair and you'll double take to see if it is me. Whenever I see a car like yours I stop and let it pass me by. Though, to be honest, it never is. So how many similar cars and girls with black hair are there in this world? What are the chances we'll be out there and run into each other? You can't even run anywhere. I can't believe no one has told you and now I have to be the one. Honey, you're dead. I'm sorry.

But so am I. A little. Now that I know you're always watching me. I always have to watch myself. Make sure I'm not being stupid, talking with my mouth full, dating the wrong kind of guys. I know you'd never approve of them. I shower all the time because I know you're always there and I always want to smell good around you. I have to, you know? What would you say? If you could still talk.

I see you walk by now all the time, I see you drive by all the time. I wonder what do you see through the glass? Through the veil of death? Am I as pretty as I try to make it seem?