You’re in the pages of my book of seventeen.
I wonder if you ever get lonely.
You were always a walking mist.
I tried to catch you but you drifted right through me and left me cold and damp.
You smiled that ****** eyed smile and I still hear the perception of Morrison’s voice whenever you speak, the distant closed door.
4am your voice was chubby, soft, comforting.
8am your voice was a cold remote island.
10am your voice is no longer.
An angry yell, teenagers escaping from their cages.
I tell you you’re an *******, you tell me to calm down.
The walls breathe around us, inhaling as our blood boils a ravishing red.
I feel like I’m spinning.
Internally screaming.
Distant.
My hands shake as they stretch to their limit, grasping, I can’t seem to hold you.
I try to escape, only to feel your hand upon me, “Don’t go.”
I try to rest my hand on yours, you let go.
You fall away.
Distant.