You have gone. There is no now,
just used to;
cement packed into Earth fragments.
Ironic, it is, that solidity above the surface
is made from what lies beneath.
Think about – oh how you can’t!
I miss that.
Poor baby.
You try to kill me again,
and again,
to show me something new,
a new world inside of sleep.
Is this how it is for you?
A permanent anywhere,
where you never are, but were?
I miss that what it was
will not, and never be anything
but you and me, asleep inside of a
sleep.
