His contorted faces plague my sleeping eyes.
There is one for each season,
there is one for each disguise.
But no, he is not the reason
why.

Although, shamefully I must confess
that this method of hiding
I really do detest.

I want to carve the memory
into my bare skin.
We don’t speak of
how wasted our time has been.

I crawl out of my skin,
latching onto the wet grass.
The wind speaks of all that could have been,
and I, just an idea in the mind of another,
take my last
look
before I fade into
the stars.