A gathering of clouds reminds me of what it was like
All that time ago, when you were more than an echo.
Now, rainfall is all but a memory of what is lost,
And what I am yet to accept is gone —
Reduced to an untouchable phantom wearing your clothes.
But as the rain gives up, I still see your hand over me
And I manifest a grin to show you I'm here,
Still.
After all this time,
I, unlike you, never left.
Because without you, the rain is cold.

Bells chime awfully loud,
Infiltrating a once clear mind
Now possessed by dings and tolls.
Puffs of blackened smoke accompany incessant whispers
And a uniform stomping of shoes along the busy street of asphalt.
A flood of hat-donning men absorb the road,
As women gaze from dusty panes and disapprovingly nod
At the odd march occurring streets below.
Flags of old fall down as new crests fly high —
Usurping what was known to be true and redefining unity.
Headlines equivocate: 'A Crisis on Flake Street', though,
If patricians did so, they'd've proclaimed freedom for all.
A conflagration of deceit and embellishments runs rampant
And joins those men parading the streets to their clear dismay.

A rocket ship cannot be orange and red with white open hatches.
A rocket ship cannot live only on cotton.
A rocket ship cannot have wings of blue taking it high.
A rocket ship must be up in the blue sky.
A rocket ship needs to see stars above.
A rocket ship is not yours to keep.
A rocket ship blanket, however,
May be orange and red with white open hatches,
May exist on your soft cotton
And have wings of blue which take it high, though,
Not in the sky to see the stars above, but
Remain yours to keep as you nuzzle for comfort
In a world where real rocket ships rise.

You'll struggle to find a home
Without smiling pictures hanging
On the walls.
No matter where you go,
You'll always find a home
With smiling pictures hanging
On the walls.
Because who would want to remember unhappiness
Because a wall is but an ideal of what you wish to be
Because no one would hang the sad pictures
On the walls.

Your clock now rests on my desk,
And each tick and tock simulates the beating of your heart,
A heart which now rests in the earth —
The earth from which it came from
And of which it has now returned to.
Your clock now ticks for you,
No longer with you.

There is nothing I don't know.
Expect you, perhaps.

There will come a day
When I look at where we once were
And feign a smile, caught in nostalgia, and
Think to myself of what we once were —
There will come a day
When I see you as no more than a poorly developed photograph
Imitating a life which has been long since abandoned.
There will come a day
When I discover truth.