What always seemed so solid, after close inspection; reveals itself as tightly-packed molecules moving more slowly past one another than we seem to be able to move. Yet never so clear as glass. Some time will come, and such paths will cross - cold absent stares and pink cheeks gently highlighting that both are aware of each body in space, in passing. It's like a repeat episode of a favored show;
     Still such a familiar storyline. Yet, somehow, it's different this time. Like the end isn't going to pull a tie to bring what's meant to be back together as such. It used to be a rush to be acknowledged in lush blossoms of words; richly entangled in nonsense, yet diligently delivering a message. As if we worked the floors in the black-and-white years of 1904; the beat would be the tapping of coded messages. Rocking and nodding and prodding for more, just working the floor. Like I'd work conversation, asking the right questions so you'd answer in my favor; to keep my self-worked in tact, to do my ego a favor.
     When the temperature drops, I tend to move up. Placing my knees on the stairs in front of me, and my hands above them. Pushing forth with all the force I am able to churn. Though the day's grown long and my will has grown weak. If it's asking too much, I'll just stay on the stairs to sleep. And I know if it were known that I were laying dead in my path, you wouldn't follow the ghosts of my future tracks; never once acknowledge that we could both know what it all meant to me.