Sore wide-open.

It’s like an itch in the deepest corner of my head and my hand won’t reach.  I’ve been running down sidewalks glowing with orange light. And blurred faces float by my shoulder. If lethargy explained my situation, I would’ve closed the topic by now but it’s just not fatigue. It honestly isn’t.

Dense. So when I run my hand through your hair, every strand turns into thick strings that lead to black and brown balls of yarn in a basement I forgot to lock. And the scissors I use to snip them, snip me back. So my arms and my face are lacerated at artistic angles. Take a picture, put it up on your wall, don’t forget me because I won’t forget you.

If I could, I’d say it’s peeling open my core and I hear the things I feel and I feel the things I see and I taste the things I know. I even put together the pieces of your confused countenance’s jigsaw together. You’re no longer the riddle you promised to be. But I still feel warm when you’re around. I won’t tell you. I won’t ever let you know.

Ask time to freeze. I need to capture every moment of this nameless, faceless despair. So when I wake up one spring morning and recall what happened that autumn eve, I’d know who to turn to, who to confide in. No mistakes will be made. No lessons will be learned.

Till then.

I’m suspended mid-air. I’m sepia-toned. And there’s nothing you can do about it.