I toss and turn and find myself looking up at the ceiling... staring through cold dark space.
Are you thinking of me?
The clock ticks and brings another moment.
All my dreams rush back and forth and all the fuzz finds its way to screaming at my face..."are you thinking of me?"
The cold water against my face feels warm in my grasp as it escapes.
Like everything I've had... grasped only to find it's way out of reach, in spite of all my efforts to grip at it.
The water keeps escaping my palms and I have seen this entire ordeal occur too often to bother to hope it will stay in my perforated hands this time.
No...fate won't have it tonight.
And so on the walk back to my bed I repeat and repeat the answer to the agonizing question burning curiosity into my paper heart.
"It doesn't matter if you're thinking of me or not."
And the paper burns.
Every night, I cremate a part of me.
And every night I'm never sure if I want to know the answer to the devil's antiques.
So I shut every thought out with the loudness of my tiredness and fall into a subconscious sleep until my mind decides to remember that no one in this entire universe knows if you're thinking
of me...or not...and the dreams reflecting you start all over again and I'm so tired of you when I wake up, I really don't want to see you.
Until the next time I see you again and I'm a five year old child drawing broken hearts all over anything I can get ink on.
Broken, by nature of my imperfect shapes and nothing else... because in these eyes affection is still something to be anticipated.