I have heard you whisper in your dreams, of death, destruction and desire. I have fondled your eyelids, searching, seen how they are pleading, wishing. In hope, we are, but you are betrayed. Your whisper is a little louder than coarse, your voice always sounding like dripping wood, splinters caught by fire. Cracking, cracking your shell open like the evil the world whispers about, the desolate gripping fear of abandonment. And I guess this is what we share. You have no shell, no gateway to a deeper persona or pure mind. In your eyes I have seen the shores of sirens, the gaping necks of dead horses, crumbled buildings and ruinous mornings. I've cried for you, before you. Never with you.

Would the say that your tears are like sand too? Would they ever know, if you fell now? Come to rest in a bed you only possess because sin was made for you. No questions. Nobody asking what you were made for, what you want, what you dream of. Only my light feet in the dark, making out for your sleeping face, checking your breathing. Only me, with the fear at heart, checking whether you are fast asleep. Only my shadow, as I retreat from your soul ever again, never stepping on the flowers. Never rippling the waters, never touching the stretches of sand. Staying behind, as silently goes. Being the last person here.

They ask not what took you, where you went, if you found anything. They ask not of you to make sure you are alive. And they have never asked why you must leave, appear so empty, so profoundly blank. Your mind is a dark recess, you tell me. Your thoughts do not exist, your world mute. Why must they pay you so little respect and attention?

You cannot wonder what they meant or not, cannot feel the touch they wouldn't or couldn't give. Your inner is protected by no walls, you have no inner. Your eyes, as striking as they may be, are a sky devoid of nurture. The face I see turned towards me does not doubt, does not linger and does not question. When you walk, the path laid before you slowly disappears. Bound to your fingers and limbs, the hasty moving shade of grey, dissipating like dust and fog, only to return again. And when you speak, your voice is like burning wood. Your only trail here is a smoldering cigarette.

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