we ain’t talked in a while. i should have called you first, now, we ain’t talked in a while. rewind, memories in real time of mirrors in reverse and your figure ‘gainst the lights. our eyes, intermingling spies, sierras in the terse valleys, rivers out of sight. i sigh, desolate in desire. the kernels that emerge of relief are just the wiles of time. recovery defined. that thing called moving on is a myth, or so i find as smiles corrode my peace of mind, invaders in a hearse color coded as respite. delight, analogous to spite, the quicker i endorse it, the more i realize that i’m without you by my side. admittedly, of course, i’m the reason for this tide of skies that thunder my demise— that fritter into horses— the horses of the night. need time to slow down this decline 'cause phantasms are haunting— the visions of a life that’s past invigorate this shrine; my ritualistic urges to keep you on my mind. a minefield of emotion spires and fastens me to forces that do incentivize this bind. now you’re my sin and vice and i could search for nurses but judgement is the price of absolution re-divined: a purgatory airless of feeling and desire. yet, i could voyage through that plight and slip into a gaunt image husk of my device. but apathy’s a lonesome crime, a ghost of what i was, that’d be just like suicide.