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I put so little thought into breathing
and the fact that my heart is dying slowly,
not from missed kisses, turned heads,
and whispered nos, but with them,

marching forward into these gray moors
that blur every horizon and i'm made of sand.
Hard packed as it is, i'm still leaving behind
the footprints that, too, in time, will wash away.

It's too late to turn back and i could never find my way out now.

These abstractions make for poor company,
holding onto lips that i'll never even touch,
witnessing eclipses by shadows cast on ground:
i want to finally see even if i go blind.


But will you hold my wrists still for these railroad spikes
just so I can say I suffered too maybe even more than you?
No.
Don't touch me. I am made of dirt.