Days, months have gone by, and somehow I'm still gathering (caught in) strings. Dropping my scissors, I pick one up and see echoes, and listen to the words I should not have written. What I should have said let's go to bed before you say something real still scratched into my wished (alternate universe) little memory let's go to bed before you say how you feel. I fold the northern lights neatly on the top shelf of my closet to leave it there, maybe forever. I wonder if something so bright will be able to collect dust. I reach for my scissors but they had stretched into threads just like everything else that touches it (the memory). Someone walks by the closed window outside I can't call you a stranger I recognize him. but I can't call you The clock says 7:03 for the first time in years and I close my eyes, willing myself to forget. I reach through the tangles of strings intertwined for a distraction and see my wall covered in posters. I try to take one off and it rips I've pinned each and every hope on you I shouldn't have taped them. I reach to turn on my lamp waiting for the hint of a spark to see the ripped paper but it does not turn on I will follow you into the dark it must be out of battery. I see my bed through the cracked shadows across my room but I can't reach it. I surrender to the threads and close my eyes on the floor. I wake up in a strange place somewhere I'd never have known my room just as it used to look but with one string left, right in front of me. I step past it and into a field of wildflowers golden rose, the color of the dream I had Pale dahlias spot that there's a lack of color here the bright field. I’ve always hate dahlias, but for some reason, I don't really mind them anymore I always knew