I had once thought I was done with this, but I think I'll be finding pieces of broken glass every now and then.
Will they let you return
Boxes of chocolate,
If they know she's dying anyway?
You're right outside my bedroom window. You're sitting in a tree, your improvised hammock, it doesn't actually exist, I checked. Halfway upside down, and you can't see me. Not at first, anyway. You're in a relatively good mood, though I don't know why you're here. It's never advisable to try to evaluate how you know these things and why. Your clothes don't suit your style, I'd never see you brave enough to try this where I'm from, but you wear them well. The best of what I can remember is black fishnets over black, tight stockings. Inching, upwards, and upwards, your skirt folding slowly backwards towards the bend in the branches. Surely this is me trying to tell me what matters. I hate myself.
A quick glance turns you around. As though you only just now noticed you were being watched. I don't buy it. There is a warm, yellow, embracing and genuine smile. It used to be I would only see that through tired eyes. Not now. You're all melatonin. Melatonin and glasses and fishnets twisting in your stride. You are altering my focus at will. You are walking through your environments, a Midas touch that makes all things invisible and permanently disregarded, they cannot disappear. You are walking towards me.
I can't tell you why I know you're dying,
This wasn't up to me
I can't tell you why I can't see you
Or how I know you're there, you're still,
Your brightness does not hurt me,
Does not blind me, it
There's so much I can say and
You go first
There's only one thing you want
One thing my mind can place your soul to say
Take your goddamn chocolates and go home.
(A note: this has NOTHING to do with Christine, or Wertperch's famous and wonderful daylog from this day. The date was not arbitrary - it was another part of the given, uninfluenced information from the dream.)