Traveling in eternal silence, with many unwritten words, flashing forward, I grab one or two but they always flee too soon, from this hand that can't support them. it can't support them. I'm sorry, that 'sorry' is needlessly my conclusion, with an awful lot of details above the surface, I sit-still and choose to pick sorry.
I'm sorry.
I want to be a part, contained by you, take me into your arms, as heavy as that sounds, I know I always linger on your shoulders, outside of time, with my hair nested, in between your neck. I know I moan too loud, to engrave my fingers on your back, I know I sting sometimes, half ruined with a past I can't seem to understand. I'm sorry, I've locked that door so many times, that you stopped wondering why.
Anguish and I share the same bed. desperately bond to each other, like two characters dying in a book; narrated with a foreign tongue, where the pain is only felt.
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