Living on the edge of fear drains you. Holding onto nothing more than tendrils of smoke, wispy and amorphous. Nothing but your own will... holding you on.
It's OK for you to walk away, turn your back on me. A part of me already knew that would have been your response. I'm still smarting from a recent rejection, so the harm is already redundant. It's OK that you're not curious, not even for one second, how I am, how I am doing.