Remember when you reached for my hand in the dark and the world around us fell apart? Remember when the shadows didn't envelop us in their brazen arms?
Now I'm just holding onto this loneliness clumped in a ball of wrinkled papers. They're not even notes we wrote each other. They're the crumpled pieces of potential that I wasted between dreams. I slept so long that I forgot how to daydream, or its use was lost in the burning embers.
Now there's a war between us and I never even heard your declaration. I just wanted to hold you in that place where the glow burns from the inside. You know I'm at least a romantic, but sometimes I get lost in the semantics of it all. The forest is made of trees and I can't stop comparing the birches with the oaks and the cedars with the aspens. I can't see your initials in the tree we carved anymore. Perhaps it's just ashes now, and you're not a phoenix, not for me anyway.
I burned that letter you into my chest and now I can't see anyone else like that. So I walk aimlessly through this timeline where the gear is stuck on the speed of life. My dreams are just a substitution for a warm or weighted blanket. The pen and paper require a certain posture that my scoliosis is incapable of maintaining for prolonged periods. So instead I fall into disrepair and don't know the number of a reliable mechanic. Even if I did, he would likely be outside my network.
Ni modo. I guess the world will keep spinning and I'll keep trying to keep my balance. It's harder to fall if I'm grabbing one ear with my right hand and extending my other arm out to steady myself.
Maybe she's outside somewhere and these padded walls aren't just pillows. Wake me up!
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