Your Ghost.

I woke up from it, and it made me sick to my stomach to think what I had been dreaming about with the love of my life laying there, next to me. A nightmare. He was drunk, like always, but the pig-faced girl was there. We were in the old house on Vine Street, and I felt so out of place, like always. He was walking around the house it was three o'clock in the morning I had been trying to sleep, they were laughing about something I was not privy to. A secret party where I was the butt of the joke. Just like it always was. And awake from the dream I looked over my shoulder and saw him laying there, sleeping so soundly, my prince, my king. I wish I could stop having those dreams. I wish I could just really get past it. And please don't get me wrong, it is definitely not that I would ever go back there, down that road of dust and bones and of dying. The world is certainly brighter now. It's just I guess that the feeling of failure is so final. There is not a hole in my heart where he used to be, nor have I filled it in a vain effort to replace him. There is hate in that spot. I don't have a problem with it, the hate. I would love the opportunity to knock his teeth down his throat, but I would give anything to make the dreams stop.