I wonder if it is just me
that feels like a book on a shelf
collecting dust, waiting forever
to be picked up by you.
Do you feel that way too?
Always holding your breath
for a brush of fingers against your spine,
and letting it out again, slowly.
I tell myself I'm not disappointed
I didn't dare let myself hope.
How bitterly I have learned
to stop myself from anticipating
I fall asleep listening to your video
Memorizing every pause of breath
and the sounds of your words,
mouthing along to them
I dream of you, when I'm lucky
Although I'm not sure if it is luck; I cry when I wake
Torn between a melting dream
and the morning that never stops coming
Unconsciously my mind drifts to you
A finger grazing an open wound.
I do not let myself daydream, indulge
Those glimpses of paper-thin happiness
Still you are in every waking breath
and I cover my own eyes
refusing to see you in the sea and sky
but you are forever painted on my eyelids, leaving.
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