Not So Open Letter

I don't think I'm being cynical when I say you've seen better days.
The "Yeah, but" argument relents and goes away when it's tired of me
(the epitome of around being around here),
just like you did. So we sit quietly, so you're ok with it, but I want to go home.
But you've even got my pillow,
and I don't know where I can lay my head anymore and if one thing is for sure
I'd rather be swimming in feathers than my own sweat from this weather but I'm not.
So I fall asleep too late because I've stayed up, waiting, too long,
hoping you'd say something to make it worth while.
You haven't, and my brain squints to try to get me to see the last time you did.
It's not working but my brain's not to blame.
Try as I might, this one is not on me.
I've known it for a long time that ours is up, and now
the only thing left to do is stop feeling down and start looking ahead.
The next time I wake I'll have broken with you from bent.
Goodnight, goodbye, to you and the sighs you brought.