Inside

It was cold last night. I pulled a red plaid blanket over my bed and watched it breath. I heard the sound of sobbing as my mind raced where it didn't belong. What came first? Words or pain? I am only my ideas. There is a body that has folded somewhere beneath this blanket. Wet with tears and deranged enough to keep wanting to be saved.

Yearning grows like humidity in wood.

Sky. The word has taken over reason. A gust of wind and I am a million shards flying up to the blue bed. Your voice. Somewhere calling me to come apart. My eyes are dying. I can tell because they only see what I tell them. Time exposed to itself. Touching only itself. Stuck in reverie of a place where yesterday is as incurable as tomorrow is inevitable.