I tire of the same old.
Stories long forgotten.
Restless staring at the moon.
My will is broke and rotten.

I heard you once tell a friend.
Of how you long to be.
A necessity to someone.
Just as someone isn't me.

I've never been a destination.
Or a thought one would cherish.
I suppose to most I simply am.
One they wish would perish.

So as I said I grow weary.
Of these waxing gibbons.
Weighing on my soul.
These chains are but ribbons.

My words mean so little.
In so I don't mean much.
Holding on to memories.
Of when I felt her touch.