I feel I've been neglecting you, I haven't written in a while. Then again, you don't exist, so I'm not entirely sure you'll mind. Yet while you've been not existing, you fake, you character, you've somehow managed to ambush me and steal my heart, my head, and in return you've left a mixture of light and dark.
Cracks of uncertainty, insecurity, appear shallower, less significant. Utterly inappropriate Houseisms draw a half smile, knowing, on a bad day. Yet, you're just a figment of the imagination, not mine, unfortunately.
Somehow you've paved the paths of greatest resistance, unconventionally of course. The unlikeliest of friendships exist because of you, international barriers obliterated through the common language that is sarcasm with an 'H'.
You intrude when least expected, invading songs on the radio, daydreams on long journeys, conversations not about you. You are impossibly flawed, you antihero. How dare you make it okay to be who we are?
You relieve pain, mental anguish, you give hope, you create dreams, all the while being who you are, an ass. So this is your fault, all these reactions, all the tears, the laughs, the time spent thinking, talking.
But then again, you don't exist, so I won't miss you at all.