And it seems so strange
That with every passing second,
Every stroke of every hand
Wound tight to the clock in the next room,
With every breath; you grow farther from me.
In my mind's eye, I can trace the contours of your face,
My fingers trailing over every dip,
Every peak like they used to when you were sleeping
On my floor or some couch we borrowed for an hour.
You said you slept better with my breathing, and I'd sing you a song you'd never hear.
But parts of your face are missing.
I know every bow of your lips, but your cheeks...
...your cheeks were less hollow, and your brow less pronounced.
Somedays, whole pieces of you are missing.
I can't find your arms, but I can feel your hands.
The exact shade of your eye's brown escapes me,
and the texture of your hair isn't quite right.
The next time I see you it will be a fresh page,
For in these last passages, our book is written in ink of apathy and neglect,
Time and impatience.
But the right ending just won't come.