Miranda says you're an idiot. Miranda says you're a malicious cunt, shit on a shoe, filth. Miranda holds my hand and tells me I'm fabulous, fabulous, fabulous. She gets me drunk and sometimes it works. I hurl insults at you as if you're in the room, swig vodka and compare your orgasm to a pig's. But it doesn't work: we turn out the lights and go to bed, and soon Miranda is snoring. But I lie awake, and your face appears in the ceiling. I shut my eyes and there you are still, walking towards me. You say, "David, are you gonna talk to me or am I a malicious cunt today?" You oink. I apologise, embarrassed.
What hurts is that you will have no such hallucinations. We share no night-time visions. I imagine you seldom imagine me. My appearance in your dreams is rare, if at all. (Do you even dream?) I am the hungry one. I am the coward. You raced ahead; new city, new haircut, new men.
Miranda says, irritated, that I need to pull myself together and move the fuck on. You're not coming back and I should stop whining. I feel bad. She's right, of course. Miranda has her own problems; she does not need to be consumed in mine. I have a foolish heart and you stamp and shriek in its atrium.
If you're reading this, come home.