call me when you think of a better reason, a grander excuse, a more plausible lie. standing here trying to think of when it became like this, when it got so hard to soak-up your words and reply with something civil. is it merely bitterness gumming away at my patience and good nature? can this bitterness be passed off as "merely bitterness"? or is it something greater lurking in the folds of my mind and time? you seem to talk about the gray areas around the corners of your eyes a lot less these days, i wonder if they've gone or if you've just become desensitized to their lingering presence. does it ever really ever go away? i'm angered by your refusal to talk to me like we use to, like we do in the mesh of my memories and fantasies. i'm sick of the "i just feeling tired today" excuse from you everyday. i never use to get sick of you at all, i loved our conversations and for that to fade into passing words it breaks me. it shatters me into pieces so small i don't know if glue could help, or i'd just become a lump of glue, ready to stick myself to the closest object and just hope it's you. it'd probably be a computer, or a television or a fridge. and i'd be left to gourge myself in lies of my own. i don't want you to call me when you think of a better reason, i just want you to call me back...