I don't recall truly living the past
2 or 3
years.
I concede only to you
that I used to be found just floating by
and out the window
along with the film of smoke
folding out of my lungs.
It's strange really
how tight I've held time
viewed it and rolled it in my palms
for hours on end
and when I reminisce on the details
they make sense
but the fabric itself has stretched so far
months had passed like weeks
days like hours.
The amount accomplished
when gazing eagerly over the threads
is depressing.
I soothe myself with friends
but still stay tacit
because my thoughts are too loud
too deafening
too self absorbed.