1. sometimes, the good days scare me. they come without warning, and i am always trying to catch up. they refuse to come easy and are more than welcome to slip through my fingers. subtly flashing under my eyelids and lulling me into what probably is fantasy. though when i finally get in the swing of things, it all stops.
2. the happy just turns off. shuts down indefinitely. i deflate and wither between grey, sprawling walls that will not offer me color or an exit. the following days may as well not exist, because i won't remember. memory is delicate.
3. despite the blurry, sidestepping outlook – i am too familiar with bitter, painful recall. it still hurts though.
4. a dull ache in my chest. it must be heart burn or a semblance of regret. will i ever get to experience realism? who knows.
5. i've gotten in-touch with my lack-of-touch in regard to the tictickticktick of time's drifting hand on my spine. it always lingers too long, but once it's gone i can't help but feel lonely.
6. my arms stretch out as far as i can reach, for as long as is realistic. but i can't tell you the way time is supposed to follow even if i try.
7. writing poems about ghosts in the first person does not make me any less transparent or real and that scares me.
8. am i a ghost? would you tell me the truth if i asked? or have i become a nonexistent entity? neither have any appeal. i used to feel like i could choose, but the devil's hand slipped into mine while your back was turned and it's been there for as long as i can remember.
9. he's never been one to grant such independence but at least his eyes burn twice as fast and unlike me, he always remembers.
