so the only reason i refuse to talk to you over the phone is because hearing your voice only makes me miss you; and i would really prefer not to feel that way about you.

but aside from this predictable drama, i've been trying to write again.
("trying" being the key word here)

Bright Lights

His face was oddly still, with a mask of sheer whiteness seemingly sewn upon his face, halting the natural ticks of a person asleep. It was mask that scared me so deeply at its ability to aggravate the lines of age that whispered stories of years lived, that I cannot yet bare to look at him beyond a few seconds; choosing instead to focus all senses on the array of beeping bright lights that kept watch over him and the mess of tubes snaking around his body. His chest, I noticed, once broad enough for me to cuddle against as I sat on his lap one cold morning in San Francisco – with his arms wrapped around me in an embrace of cinnamon, hot chocolate and pandesal crumbs – now lay thin and fragile, wasting away from every labored breath that escaped with drool.

I am not afraid, I told myself; sad maybe, but not afraid.

...you're all not allowed to read the rest.