Where do we go when no one follows,
And how to stop if no one come?
I search for something lost and borrowed,
And blue to lighten up the sky.
I end up at the front of a window,
And feel a craving to get in.
There is a face that looks familiar
That I no longer wish to be affiliated with.
The day and night, too, pass unbothered;
The light all gone from tender eyes.
The moon is covered through, but lightning
Sometimes strikes to remind of life.

I was the moon,
He - just a crescent,
Half there and half away.
I wanted to shine bright together,
He was not sure of the way.

The corners sharp, the colour dull,
Yet the smile was long to fool a fool.
I fell into the trap, believing
To find out nothing was enough
When you are lesser than a half.

He shrinks for me, myopic kindness,
Facing the other side of the sky.
I turned around, in hopes he'd realise
How long I stayed the same and by his side.

The time has passed, still
He refused to grow,
I noticed a part missing.
I don't know why, but it seemed fine to him
That I began to miss some pieces.

He started to count stars around,
Admire fallen ones and touch them.
I was still watching, not afar,
Losing the grip, and back, to madness.

And piece by piece, reflecting in the dark,
I saw my other side, in shadow.
Instead was I who realised,
I was a half as well and shallow.

Maybe it's me who hasn't moved yet,
Half hidden, half inside, inept.
I wanted change but I was, too, instead.
Too much and less. Too less.

Was it as scary, much too hopeful,
Hiding behind his back, a little rogue?
The pieces fell where it was not a problem:
He turned himself, and now I was alone.

The cosmos is too dull to understand
The shining of some stupid stars.
A speck of something real quickly fades
Because it died a half decade past.

There is a light that comes from the telly,
Sometimes the moon shines in the night,
But not a flicker from the table,
No message pops up in the chat.
I wonder when the time is coming,
When does the blink mean less than that?
I circle back, afraid of something—
Not getting any, and yet getting some.

Of unspoken kind words that broke down in the process,
Under pain that suddenly storms.
To receive more than I ever deserve,
Even when you would know of my faults.

Holding on, realising it's reckless,
Asking for more than I am able to hold.
Pushing luck just to end up lost nowhere—
Halfway close, halfway back, and offshore.

The rugose skin has helped me see better.
And every time, as now, I close my eyes,
The dreams become less vivid of your tender,
And I can see behind those sweet old lies.

The music gets me going; I wonder where it leads.
I still keep those **** letters up my sleeve,
And notes that kept me warm are burnt by your own words.
They don't tell any stories anymore.

Salient pace, turned to a race,
Keeps me moving still and in time.
I invented a machine that would make me old and real;
You, I left as young and past behind.

Someday, I'll sit by the river
Where all the promises were made.
And as I close my eyes, I won't make a sound,
Because there won’t be a flicker
Of my thoughts trailing away
To the day I said "I want you" in reply.

It is so boring yet alluring,
So strong and weak in just a nick of time,
To drive all night without hesitation,
To come back in the morning with a broken spine.
To switch the role of a conqueror to victim,
And juggle stories to make up a perfect line.
In retrospect, come up with better answers,
To realize it's all a waste of time.
It is a moment of complete misunderstanding,
To fill the cranium with what is wiser to be off.
There is an end that points to the beginning of a new axis,
It turns upwards, completing the dimension of a cartboard box.

It is not gullible as paper, still able to be molded and reshaped.
One day a hopeless sufferer surrenders
And talks oneself out of the noxious place.
Outside the box, imagination blossoms peacefully
Without the coerced necessity to play within the walls.
New tales embark on unexpected journeys
Demanding the narrator be an explorer to behove.
To find out better moments in decisions.
To finish pointless crushing of the bones.
There is a start that shifts the living
After the point of no return.

A tiny spider's silk unravels steadily, believing
It would be picked by hands so tender to its heart,
Instead of fortuital encountered
By a completely crushing stranger's palm.
The loosened strain that flows in open wilderness
Had better learn to weave a big, wide web,
Before it gets too sticky at the other end,
And guts are scattered all across the green duvet.