Love's Labours Loft

This is another one of those letters in which I act like I'm dealing with myself, when I'm actually not. This is another one of those letters. 

I've spent this dry, sunny December thinking about my tomb stone. 
What the fuck would I write on it?
Who would bother to read it? My sister. But she wouldn't get it. Because she's too afraid to look for hidden meanings.
I understand you. You write your tomb stone epitaph over and over again, you have people criticize it, you act like it doesn't really matter because you're dead anyway. But I poke around your head and I see diseased livelihood. I fall in love. And I beg you, write mine too.
I've been in and out of galleries these days. I'm up in the smoke of wanna-be-bohemian strangers that compliment my paintings and call me exotic, as they see fit when I smack them in their perfect corporate American cheek with my lame translation of Romanian swear words. At this point the gallery manager butts in the conversation and tells them I have Tourettes. I don't mind playing crazy. I'm crazy anyway. 
I've tried calling you but every time I dial your number I shiver with shame. The shame of not having heard your voice in over 6 months. But you know my morals aren't that good. I'm scared shitless of what your voice might bring back. I fear that once you'll say "Hello" to me from an ocean's distance, I'll want to jump off a 80 story building again. My whole world came crashing down with you. 
My sister bought me a strait jacket for the humor of it. I've actually reached the point where I wish she'd stuff me in it and let me be. I'm sick of painting what my life once was. I'm sick of living in a deluded memory. Everything is clear, except for right now. I... I try to hang on because you've talked me into it. But now that you're slipping too, I feel that there's no escaping this while we grow older. 
No sharp objects since October. 
No windows.
I paint outside. I forget where I am. I feel like you're only a drive away. But my sister says it's not true, so I get out of my car. And stop thinking. And try to stop breathing. I don't budge for hours. 
She says it's called catalepsy. It has a name you know, dreaming about me and you. Remember that word, catalepsy. 
I'm waiting for my epitaph. I know there's someone in there when I look at you. Please do what I couldn't. Be sane. Never let anyone rob you of your peace.

Yours truly,

Dark and Nightspawn

P.s.

Remember this picture? 4 years ago.