Maybe there is this piece of me that’s missing. Maybe that’s why I
quickly. Live a thousand fictional lives but run away from my own. Forget the tiny details and courtesies as some part of me still scorns deliberation and effort. Feel the want, the need, have the script, the almost plan but withdraw, my voice faint and mouth dry as opportunity comes closer and closer to knocking. Grow colder and colder with age. Wake up one day to find myself all gone all gone as my voice echoes off the bare walls.
I thought this time was different but the thing about patterns is that they tend to repeat.