It's unfair. I see your eyes on every sunny day. I can't escape the color behind the clouds. What exactly do I have here? Plastic shackles, visual poetry. Little bits and pieces I've collected over these past few months. They add up to nothing. I can't make you out of tiny beads and bruises. I can only try to remember what your lips feel like on my skin and how your voice makes every inch of my body sigh.
With all the time I've spent bettering myself, you've seen no progress. I can't say I have either. I don't blame you for what you do or think. I blame myself for all the things I didn't change when I had time. It's too late. Someone better is waiting for you.
In a haze between what is and isn't, I find myself skipping stones and singing songs of longing. This could be a dream. In fact, I'm fairly certain it is. In a vain attempt to recollect all the times I've failed myself for the sake of someone else the ground opens beneath me and I am pulled to the center of the Earth by arms of sand and sea shells and skipping stones. Breath in the dust from shelves long forgotten and collapsed from the weight of damaged memories. It smells like heart break and abandonment. Miles down a hallway I see an old friend. His razor sharp fingers beckon me with their brilliant shine and red varnish. He never was all that kind, but he never judged me either. He was simply a vice that I ultimately controlled. And I never truly abused him. He never had to leave. More than I can say for most people. I can understand now what makes him so appealing.
My footsteps are so quiet I can hear every creak in this house. What was once a castle of sand became a mountain of broken glass from a picture frame left neglected for generations, knocked down so carelessly by someone who couldn't appreciate your flaws and wonderful features. Millions of tiny reflections remind me that I'm running towards something. Someone, even. Another friend. Her wisdom is unsurpassed by my greatest elder. She stands with great pride written in her posture. The curves of her witch-like figure look to me like satin feels. I want to see her face.
It's 6:30 AM. Dressing for failure has become the last hobby I'll ever keep.
