It's a mirror in the doorway that tells me I can look no further. I am not experienced, like you. I don't know how to defy this. I don't think gravity is on my side; nor luck or love. I wonder why, sometimes.
It feels like summer in winter if I think of you with my eyes closed. And there's something kicking at the edge of my mind, like a skeleton tired of being locked away and tired of trying to read in the dark. The bulb is burnt out. I can't see anymore than you can, but at least you have the key to the closet.
I meant to be this and that and all the things you used to get mad at me for being. I'm not sure why you're so simple, so feeble. When I used to admire your heart I would sit on my knees so that when my feet went numb I could feel the pin-***** of waking up.
Now you've been sleeping for years, and I know, at this point, that I'm not Prince Charming. You've told me nearly a million times. Or at least your lips have, as they mouth the words of your death, like a diabetic child ******* on a forbidden lollipop. I still can't seem to miss you.