Careless gravel and dust strewn about as the sun sets and your reflection wanes; alternate daylit mirrors wax over the blurred remnants of the shape you were, fattening the thin, fucking up the perfect, fading the strength of your lonely daily measured sense of self. You do it the same the next day. We’ll sit there and watch ourselves peak in the noon and fall in the night, right before bed when the most persecuting agent in life, in real life, is your dreams. That desperate time when you really, really are alone. Locked away in your head, you think the real hiding is when you wake up and say to yourself, it was only a dream.

Without having to voice it in front of others. When no one else is hearing. The first step to admitting that you have a problem may be how hard it is to see someone else sleep soundly. The next may be noticing with impatience how long it takes somebody you are close to to return your call. A further step … probably trying to figure out if it’s really a problem at all. Or who it’s a problem for.

How hard do you look at yourself. How often do you turn away from that. Sitting alone in bed at night after a celebration that’s ended, wondering what to do with the next hour, that fateful hour when you really have to try to figure something out. Even if you’re not alone in bed, don’t you do it anyway in the middle of the night when you’re awake while the person next to you is asleep, making sounds, uncomfortable, uninteresting, unbearable sounds of slumber, while you stare up at the ceiling, over at the wall. What are you thinking.

But what of it on the inside. What if it’s not a commonality after all. What if it’s really just you.

We sat together in the small, yellow circle of a streetlight’s gaze, with our hands on each others’ knees. Probably this dream was the best one all month.

The heaviness of your decision, as the pain of your regret, will weigh upon you tenfold in dreams if you don’t watch out.

It should follow that the most problematic of instances would be an inseparable notion within the constraints of a torn position on the concept of love.

A burned church.

You moved so fucking far away. I can’t stand it.

Where nobody ever goes.