Marking margins at bottoms of beds!

I'd figure it out, but i don't necessarily want to. I'd breathe if i could, but this tension digs it's home in my chest. I lock my door and pretend it'll do the trick; it doesn't. Not a surprise. I graze your purple sweatshirt as i walk across the room, as it sits restfully on the back of my chair; hanging. I imagine it's sway, it's dance, as if your body filled it's figure. Your figure. I stop and stare. I hate this feeling, the one that i get when- i won't say it. Write it. Moving on. I used to be good at this stream of conscious ordeal, but I'm never moved on at the thought of this. Like a green highlighter staining the contents of a book I've never read and it's opened in the middle. I never do that, but i did. Perfect page. Marked my thoughts in margins; across pages. Ponder days later and don't remember why. It's always better not to remember why. I've always liked my privacy, so does this make it ironic? You wouldn't even know. Imagine what you'd like, but just because you aren't illiterate doesn't mean you aren't artificial. You bitch. Who are you? Don't pretend like you even know, 'cause if that wasn't the case, you wouldn't be wasting your pathetic breathe on these minor details of a life that doesn't involve you. Your jealousy is creepy and even you know it. I would laugh at you if i took the time to think about it. All of you. Stop reading now, 'cause  you might think I'm talking about you. You should be embarrassed; i would be. Now, i remember the tension even though i never forgot. Your lack of presence is haunting. I kind of miss you, brother.

My right hand is colder than my left; i love your wisdom.