silent bytes of information pass from me to your computer screen, an angry black arial crying out for you to listen. i am answered with blank white space and blank white space again. you retreat further from me, like a cowardly dog. each new sheet of white is like a blinding slice into everything we built together. you no longer care, and i no longer care to eat. my font grows smaller, miniscule; the ink continues to expire with each stroke. you are a counterfeit ghost of what i used to consider everything. my letters and numbers pass through you swiftly like a song, and your sheets of white cut into me like a familiar blade. i dream of the trash-ridden street i used to happily take to your house. i dream of waking up in your soft blankets again, of her licking my face and of you looking down, smiling as i stir, the way you used to. i dream that what fell apart has resumed position as something whole. my letters and numbers are now scattered over the floor, a brilliant white against my dirty carpet. i step over them, crunching them into the softened ground. quickly i forget them. and you force me to forget you.