You fell from my mind
burning,
the way smoke burns your lungs
and caresses them yet.

I don't know what happened,
it's strange
that at once I wanted to be with you
and then I wanted to be you
but now I want nothing more
than to be rid
of all of this.

It's not you,
at least, I don't think so.
It's me,
and all the attitude I carry
and the fact that your fingers
don't feel right
on me
anymore.

And I don't know how to
tell you this, but
I don't feel like
I'm comfortable
or you're comfortable
enough,
like we used to be.

I don't know why I need
to say this, but
despite our lives,
and despite the fact
I don't seem to ever care
about anyone but myself-
at least, at the moment,
I do care, some.

But I wouldn't blame you
if you
didn't.

I'm awfully clingy, it seems.