I said I was forever, now I'm only might have been.
In all the sleepless nights I'm broken, still can't speak to comprehend. This despair is for the life I never lived, when the one I have is fine, it's the vision that only has meaning when I close my eyes. All your words have changed in the intervening space, but your breath still tells me everything. It's the salt I've sown to the memory, that drives these dreams to dust. The fire on your skin, is me falling down your well. I can't move without the words, and the need to hear it crashing, bringing me to me again. The fix for what you might have said. It's when your backs against the wall, that I go blind to everything, and if you step into me, then the rest can fall away. It's this moment that consoles me, draping you in me.

But the dream turns to chills upon waking. The bed seems to grow and the rooms always shrinking. It's the holiday twitches reminding me that the clock is still ticking. Let it wind down and we can stop thinking. It's the music that changes my internal rythym, makes the hollow swallow everything when it surrounds. It's everything I haven't written that really matters. The quiet that teaches how to respond. The words that fly to you, the asked for and hidden, that connection remains. And I know it stays. I'm still standing, but there is no hand before me. It's the bruise that reminds you how far you've run away. A mind like a fist, when all the praise is laying bare.

Still all the phrases are lonely for noise and location, internalized, one step forward to realized, one step back to forgotten. It's the memory that shames reality into a resemblance of the fantasy. The motion of nothing wears the crease ever deeper. The disposable recollection, when I put this longest night to waste. The dream is an attack against a personal inertia.