I think that it is almost over.
Then, maybe things can go back
To like they never were.
Maybe you can live again.
Maybe you can dance again.
Maybe you can be here.
Right now, blurred lenses
Attach to your retinas.
Your body is weak,
And your mind is racing
To escape this dull
Apartment flooded
With hair and dust
And crumbs and skin.
So fragile and careless.
Maybe you can be here.

There are so many people here accounted
for, but barely less than one half of a person.
How to become someone, something interesting
enough to add fractions upon fractions to build a whole.
A whole brain for you to infiltrate with grasping,
awkward fingers, and anyway, you waste most of it.
Savoring only tiny portions, and the remainder amass
in gigantic landfills in the middle of nowhere
with fine layers of bird **** dusting the tops.
So, never forget where you've been or where you weren't.
There will always be someone who remembers.
And you will remember only when it concerns you.
Put away your ego, wants, and self; you are me.