Up here, I have no clue.
This shroud of white is like a fluffy blindfold
I’m free to imagine
And make do with what I have.

People tell me to come back down.
I’m becoming ignorant, it’s true.
Something I’d much prefer
Over having to think of you.

Down there, I see the blisters on my skin
The painful scrapes from where I ripped you away.
They sting and ache and bleed
Only getting worse every day.

The severity of my want of you
Emanating from every action I take
In constant fear and worry
That my words would bite back.

So, don’t you see?
I prefer it up here
With my head in the clouds;
Where I have nothing to fear.