Damp no longer holds in me. A dry case misplaced and withheld in its own thoughts. I used to be filled with life of passion and romance. People coming in and out with no worries, fascinating stories, ideas worth pouring, making me damp with tears of joy. Allowing mold to grow into moss at only the cost of being human. I had grown a forest of pure love into the soil, filling the earth with the roots of hope. Intertwined vines grasping the sky of ambition till giants look like ants with their golden harps and corporate rants. But now drained of the moisture of my leaves and dreams, too fast for me to scream or plead. People left me to bleed and kept everything they could touch. Broken alone I can't judge the distance between when I sleep and reality. I have nothing inside to hold the pieces of sanity I seek. So, I let them go. Let the rays of light seep through the broken holes in my worn torn shack. Illuminating the dust of all I have left. Fragments of those that were there. Damp no longer my vocabulary.