this must be the place.

its 83 degrees.
windows open.
breeze through.

its been silent.
same as the wind.
pens and paper, and glances
are all that spoken.

its obvious.
this tension between the two.

its spreads over the bed.
covers the floor like a rug.
you can find it
lost in couch cushions.
tucked away in the back of the fridge.
left like dust on the sill.

i sleep better than i thought i would.
better than before.
solid and sound.
i lie alone and to myself.
memory foam mimicking my misery.
my dreams are nothing different in the daylight.
i find it just as easily to manipulate
real life.

all this energy and emotion.
constantly wiping his heart on his sleeve.

and i,
ambivalent and ambitious.
my optimism and naivety
over shadowing the inevitable.

i grasp on.
lingering in the purgatory.
drawn gray in the homage.

all this time.
1,000 days
26,000 hours
1 million minutes
between us.

and yet i cant seem to hold onto one second of this.