And I sweat out your fever dream, but its heat's still painted on me. I wear you like a sketch of an incision, a cut not deep enough to bleed. If there's an honest answer out there, it's that I've lingered too long. The ghost of you I thought I knew for so long was always gone.
/
There's silence in my eyes, but there's a heat in your heart. I left my voice on the wind, it tore my words apart. And pieces of this were best left scattered, like the ashes of someone loved but lost. And if I found it buried in the soil, I wouldn't dig for the purity. It's a shallow grave sometimes I think it's ready for what's left of me.