You would have died some time ago, and several times over, since; lost upon yourself, your day of birth: as well as of the reason to be born.
In a gruelling process of ascent, there upon this ever wearying rut; mind and heart raised white flags, leaving behind an ill-worn tune.
Perhaps it explains this spectral jaunt; of faded jeans and dog-eared books, as faint lip balm fragrance dissipates, your erstwhile existence from us torn.