How can I come to know you,
My finger-slipped tomorrow,
Without dragging my old-Self along?
I need to feel your lips on,
Skin that isn’t mine,
Yet.
Waiting has given me a tolerance for dreaming,
And I can’t keep holding (it in)\(on):
“Nothing happens. Nobody comes,
Nobody goes. It’s awful.”
These dreams of mine are become torturous;
Silent films on repeat.
Unfortunately expected and grey,
Reality greets me in the morning.
Emptiness taking up your spot next to me,
Holding me in place magnetically,
It takes all of Me to lift myself up,
Delivering unto the world,
The man-to-be-erased playing the part of the Mime.
Post-Neology 