You don't need caffeine to keep you awake when you have anxiety and uncertainity pushing your thoughts to the edge of sanity. You need hope and comfort to put you to sleep. You need faith to have one night's peaceful rest. You need to know your compromise will lead to something of pride, something of contentment if not happiness. You need to know you're alive.
There are so many sensations my mind rejects often now. The need to touch you, the impulse to feel your skin against mine is almost natural. I'm almost afraid to say I've never felt it, almost afraid to see my own name on the tombstone before the opportunity to mourn- or maybe just too afraid to confront herself. How do I say that there is nothing to confront in the first place. Perhaps I am just the ghost that I thought I almost saw from the corner of my eye when I was all by myself. Dead. Dead other than the ghosts of the memories that meander inside and out almost every other night. How do I say I have no narrative to this very-essential chapter of life without sounding like an echo or looking like a shadow? To look in the mirror and see no reflections of your own touchable, tangible body but only the circling, buzzing wisps of words flounder around you, the words you exchanged today or yesterday or want to say tomorrow and maybe even publish some day, only the smoke that comes from the fire of purpose; the purpose that lights up your conscience every morning and turns every carnal need, every desire of the flesh to ash.
If to want touch you is to live, then I was never anything more than an apparition. Perhaps I am a projection of your thoughts, and if I confess to you, I'm afraid I'll read out my own obituary.
There are so many sensations my mind rejects often now. The need to touch you, the impulse to feel your skin against mine is almost natural. I'm almost afraid to say I've never felt it, almost afraid to see my own name on the tombstone before the opportunity to mourn- or maybe just too afraid to confront herself. How do I say that there is nothing to confront in the first place. Perhaps I am just the ghost that I thought I almost saw from the corner of my eye when I was all by myself. Dead. Dead other than the ghosts of the memories that meander inside and out almost every other night. How do I say I have no narrative to this very-essential chapter of life without sounding like an echo or looking like a shadow? To look in the mirror and see no reflections of your own touchable, tangible body but only the circling, buzzing wisps of words flounder around you, the words you exchanged today or yesterday or want to say tomorrow and maybe even publish some day, only the smoke that comes from the fire of purpose; the purpose that lights up your conscience every morning and turns every carnal need, every desire of the flesh to ash.
If to want touch you is to live, then I was never anything more than an apparition. Perhaps I am a projection of your thoughts, and if I confess to you, I'm afraid I'll read out my own obituary.
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