My lungs burn.
After every intake.
There is no release from this.
Running down this icy path.
This thin thing.

This solid sliver, hard enough to hold your weight.
Had enough to wait.

The things I write of, these metaphors.
You are so much more.

I cannot imagine how it would be if your eyes looked at me,
with no camera in between.

I need no help to see the obvious,
Three Libras be damned.
May I die before my words are born of rock and shell.
or someone else.

may I write the poorest things.
just like the last thing given to me.
time spent in exaggeration.
smothering sensation.

But god bless those who define themselves through the agony of youth.

When it stops being written for you.

I am relevant!
you cry.
We are the same sad child,
you and I.

Every ligament and bone,
and tissue sample.
Every organ harvested, a piece at least.

I have loved you since the day you were conceived. you will never see the end of me.
In your head or somewhere else.
what else should I believe?
that the truth is you will forget me?

That you will gladly charge on reasonably, without me?
Not one instance of kicking. Or screaming.
Internally. Externally?

But the prices dropped and the merchants screamed.
It’s not always what it seems.
They aren’t always what they seem to be.