Slowdanced to Death

Life exists while you've made other plans.
That's a paraphrase of a quote I read.
It made sense. I'm starting to make sense
of you, this and us.
Am I an angry person, or
just a person who gets angry?
Insomniac or alcoholic?
Fragile or waiting to be broken?
Self-inflicted is the reason I didn't call you tonight;
I feel sad enough without having
to struggle through another conversation with you.
If this dream is over, why can't I wake up;
and would I want to anyway?
When I correct my failures
it won't include the second-, third-, fourth-
or fifth-coming of you.
I've been through this too many times
and no one's ever left me to rot in my own soil
this way before.
Surely you can dance on my grave
like you're dancing on my memories now.
I won't complain;
I'll just agree when you say
it's better off this way.
After all, didn't you make other plans?