And with every breath of this air it becomes thicker,
moving itself over my skin as if it were my new corpse
but an old one
taking over and suffocating the fresh and living.
I move past each palm tree with ease
because really it's all the same when you see it,
nothing ever changes no matter how much time is in between
but with each passing I falter
and digging myself further into a grave of memories
I loose sight of what was ahead of me.
It's so easy to shut my doors,
lay on the grey carpet as if not a year, hour, second has gone by
and that it's all still here.
The posters are more faded each time I see them,
the cobwebs more pronounced,
and still I always want to stay.
Locked away in this gap of space
a locked two roomed doll house
an abyss of safety only I can understand.
It's as if you stepped into a materialized, still life of yourself,
but that's it
you said it earlier
it's not yourself
it's what you once were
but he's dead
he doesn't love you
they've all moved and grown just as you have
the window doesn't stay open anymore
and everything you've left here you've left for a reason
to leave it.
So let it go.
When you walk into a room, and feeling trickles up your ankles, moving slowly up your legs and torso, and neck and around to your throat, and it begins to grab hold of you so forcefully that it feels as though it were a real person, that's perhaps when you should look back at this feeling and ask "what is it exactly that I'm feeling, and what is the exact opposite of it that perhaps I am lacking?" or maybe this doesn't even make sense, for after all I am a little drunk still.