Haunted

His voice haunts me in the most diabolical of ways: late at night, drunk, unalone but uncertain of myself as any other moment. I hear it then, as I edge near the boundary of drunken forgetting when intimacy looms large in the viewfinder, as it did then, a fair half decade ago now: you aren't who I thought you were.

That rushing sound you hear is all the doubts you ever had being confirmed in a single exhale of someone else.

But who you were: you knew.

Tata tata rata: "Is this real life?"