I’ve heard you talk about people from your past. I’ve seen your eyes stare off into traffic, never even blinking as their hollow names march out of your mouth. I’ve felt a cold air blow through the distance between you and them, the blood in your heart no longer pumps into their severed arteries. The skin of that part of you has gone grey in pallor. Your memories are stiff in rigor mortis, no longer pumping with thoughts of tomorrow. Instead of laying those memories to bed for another day, you bury them in their graves, only allowing them to become unearthed when someone wants to ***** their hands to find something to grab on to, something to plant themselves in.

I wish I would have known then
That I was digging my own
Place of Unrest.