Sometimes I wonder if my best memories are tired of the way I abuse them, they stay hidden away with my dreams and ideals until night, when I find something besides me in my bed. I can’t decide if it’s an intruder or if it’s been resting on my satin sheets longer than I have. My memories reside with me only at night; when the quiet becomes too loud and the static in my head comes to an abrupt halt, and there you are. Green eyes, dirty blonde hair, and the ability to say everything right. I know that you don’t believe in ghosts, or second chances; things of fairytales never interested you, but I was still your princess in my floral sundress and you were still my knight, even when you flicked away the ashes of you smoldering cigarette. I thought “hey this could work out” but I liked my naïvety and you were always just waiting for me to grow up.