Limp cloth tries to dance our silhouette to life, White, paper, teeth, famished for ideas of you & I- in the same sentence. The light’s glare, that I should look toward is imprinted in my mind. There’s a look of yours I’ve familiarized myself with, it is all-knowing. You lick your lips as a sign of defeat. We’re both stalemates to time, its’ unforgiving mark- bound to be alone. Always afraid of change, taking place. Is there redemption? Or are we fated to smother? Is there a pardon? I’m left here. Though, the seasons do change, leaves falling, as our patience wears thin of each other. Here I am, left to tend to the non moving skeletons, we both surrendered.