Eyes dry,
vision cloudy,
waning.
Slowly,
most certainly always trying to be,
trying to exist,
becoming a part to fill in,
to fill up,
to overflow.
Never.

Cinematic sunsets and hot air,
my face is a net for fantasies.
For their idea of me,
their idea of what he should be.
Images we've seen are painted deep,
ingrained in the folds,
but those ideas were someone else's,
someone else's distortion of what's in need.
What's needed?