Little "us" beneath the stairs
Passing notes, the other knows not;
Our souls doubt, but our hearts bares
Secret, surreal urges we fought.
No one truly knows how hard we tried and try
Not to hurt the loved with us then.
We aren't  ourselves, addicts of of the high.
"This is too good to stop", our natural zen.
A connection of imperfect spirits; so full of "us"/dust
We forget the lives we have built
With them, the ones we truly trust.
"Us" is just a fainter breeze, yet exhiliarating.
We can't stop, even as reality is fading