I didn't go to the funeral.
Why would I go to a funeral for someone who isn't dead?
Atlantic was here. In our room. Hiding somewhere, playing with me. Punishing me.
He wouldn't leave me like this.
He loved me.
He loved me.
He loved me enough not to leave me.
Atlantic is okay. He's fine. He just needs some time to himself, before he comes out and wraps his arms around me again.
He's okay I'm sure of it.
YOU ARE READING
Cold
Short Story#27- flowers 11/21/18 #748- poetry We had this sick fantasy that we could be in love forever. That no one could tear us apart. Well, except ourselves.
