Dreams, maybe even reality. They mix, like an image of liquid.
Starts out smooth, before the burn, before the aftertaste.
A grey, almost invisible mosaic slowly dissipating into thin air.
It filters through, down your shoulder blades, past your collarbone and right underneath your ribcage.
It is met with a sizzle, the one that shoots right up your spine.
So many contradictions, all promising yet distant  .
Gruff, like sandpaper yet a little less revolting.
The palpitations intertwining, drawing the minutes out.
It starts to sting, then slowly turns into numbness.
It is welcoming and comforting.
Remembrance is but a fatality, losing sense of time.
The moment backlashes, the atmosphere crackles like bones.
Thoughts of things that don't exist, a new plane of existence.
Condensation, trickling and dipping between crevices.
The air is thick, not safe for use.
Every breath turns into a chore.
The only focus is the slow and muffled inhale followed by a regretted exhale.
Answers become twine, slowly unraveling.
They seem clear, but the illusion matured.
It surpassed the point of recognition, leaving a trace of resemblance.
The itch is unbearable, gnawing at the center of the subconscious.
As it all slowly filters away the emptiness turns to comfort.
The feeling of fulfillment becoming too distorting, and the calling for loss begins.
Varying pressures assure one thing; the existence of movement.
The cloaking of heat starts to slip and sudden rushes of frost accentuate the loss and gain.
The silence is unusually foreboding, but needed.
Calloused fingertips don't burn, but summon shivers instead.
Sudden unwanted thoughts play out behind shut eyelids.
It is all just a texture, nothing more.
Not what is expected but a dip in time, a halt in speed.
Soon the clock will start ticking on and the gap will bridge itself.
It is the hesitancy that keeps the moment hanging.
It is the fright of losing a small piece of understanding, or the warping of simplicity.