This hilly landscape has its ups and downs just like every fleeting thought and idea we've ever had. Every rainy Sunday, and every weekend-killing Monday, followed by the rest of the days that race back and forth from wonderful to depressing like a never-ending game of pickle in the midst of a warm winter day where that fragment of hope for spring is shattered by the weight of the suddenly falling flakes, and the frozen ground beneath your feet remains hard and unforgiving, too frozen over to let the beckoning hands of brighter days break through the surface. But the difference between you and I is that I'll drop to my knees and claw at the ground, I'll embrace it with the intention to bring it warmth, to soften the shell that these hands beneath the earth are struggling to push through.
...And you'll go back inside. Back to your books and your candles and your false hopes, where the ghosts of inactivity and broken spirits thrive within your walls.  
The bags under my eyes are distant, rolling plains, shaped by tough times and happy accidents. I wander  aimlessly, I hope and dream and fall down five hundred times a day, just to get back up and wipe the dirt off my knees and continue finding myself in the midst of absolutely nothing.
To put it simply, we are not the same.

Time is always moving us along. It's a gentle hand pushing on our back, feet slick from the ice beneath us, being ushered into the night and day again and again. Along the way we are ever changing, falling in and out of each other in a winding current that rises and falls like our emotions are the tides, and your waves crash upon the shore, only to be brought back out to sea by my undertow. I will keep you in your home, your vastly growing and expanding home, brought back to me through the undertow. But when high tide turns to low, we see the beauty of what lays beneath our bones, and our bones are the jagged rocks that line the shores, being worn smooth by the other waves that push and prey upon our exposed rock faces. As we wear away, our skin grows thicker. Our thoughts dampen. We last out against the ever growing tides less and less. We grow into ourselves. We grow into each other. Reserved, but indestructible.

Everything is broken. Broken clocks, broken doors, broken spirits. Struggling just to softly breathe your name without my voice breaking. Shredded letters, meaningless scripts to highlight just how much my life is a cleverly constructed piece of satire, poorly printed on a newspaper page that no one reads, tossed to the sidewalk and stomped into fibers that do nothing but pollute the already ***** puddles on the side of the street. The words upon that parchment, the ink within the pages, is insignificant. I am insignificant. I am a vagrant. I am a knot in a tree trunk, and when a tree falls in the forest, it screams. It silently screams to be held back up by it's brothers, by its friends, by its family, but none of them move. They let it fall and they watch it rot.