Your frustration leaches onto me,
provoking the atmosphere to tighten.
You sigh as I lie helplessly,
defeated in a war that I was not apart of.

Through the dense fog lies your fray
and the childish games you undoubtedly return to without hesitation.
Amongst the haze you are much too indignant to strain your eyes,
only to observe your own silhouette as your foe.

Misattribution of arousal,
the sole destroyer of the purest.
Creator of both
fictional love stories and unwarrented sorrows.
The essence of emotion leaching onto what lies nearest,
deceiving both good and evil.

Evils potential being depreciated,
never given a second thought.
Anonymously causing casualties
almost effortlessly.

There is worth in being mindful.

An abundance of time they claim,
thoughtless motives,
spontaneous actions.
The abundance fogs the assurance.

An unfathomable, uncertain amount of time,
yet sometimes all wasted, as time is thrown away when distanced from the only purposeful things in life.

We all want just one more day.

Maybe tomorrow