It's been four weeks, and I'm still in the exact same place.

Not literally, of course. I haven't been in bed the whole time; I'm not that hopeless. But- I guess I am still pretty hopeless, because it's been- like I said- four weeks, and I still haven't moved on.

Also, I have spent a lot more time in bed with the windows drawn than I'd like to admit.

I'm not in bed at this exact moment, though, so that's a plus.

The ocean's really pretty right now, you know.

Pretty's not the word. More like-

beautiful.

I used to think you were beautiful, you know that?

Beautiful like the lavender and fuschia and rose streaks of the sunset. Beautiful like the waves that brush up against the shore, foam glimmering pink and gold in the afternoon light before it slips back into the sea. Beautiful like the cheering and laughing of small children as they run past, feet nearly catching in the cracks between the planks of the boardwalk.

I don't think you're beautiful anymore.

But at the same time-

you are.

You are beautiful, like the way the sky fades into a pale yellow strip of nothingness along the horizon.

Beautiful like the forever rippling water, each uniquely shaped wave lost in the size of the ocean and its monotony.

Beautiful like the quiet murmur of the sea that remains when the children and their laughter are long gone.

You are beautiful in your end, your oblivion, your promise that nothing good can last forever.

None of this is your fault, you know? You didn't do anything wrong.

But then again, neither did I.

The idea of "us" just didn't work out.

And I guess that's what hurts the most.