This is some damn good writing

I refuse to settle for loving the idea of a man who does not exist. He is nothing more than the faintness that breath leaves behind on mornings like this. He is nothing to me. No birthday wishes, no matter how lovely they are spoken, can be true and free of hate or disgust or egotistical motivations. While my heart sank and my knees gave way to a weight I didn't realize I had, there was nothing there. It was as if he had been a used transparency, one that the teacher had scribbled on so many times it appeared gray. But suddenly, as if my presence was water, the transparency had been washed clean, and I could see right through it. It's pathetic motivations, it's pompous and self serving eyes. I still picture your face and the way you used to taste but only in dreams of you for the reality of who you appear to be is faded and bitter. Appearance is everything.