Auto Focus

Floating on the moment. Chalkboard skin exhales sharply with every word you put on it. It's true. How old we are now. How young we were then.

I taste the karma in every breath. Its bitter wine pumped into my blood. Makes me nauseous. Makes me content with my sickness.

In my world your every thought was paper. Every wall wore it. It was all I could see for so long. The sun never set. It just blinked and suddenly life was over.

There are too many hours. Plagued with when. Too many minutes. Infected with if.

Not to begin again. Burnt match sticks won't ignite. Not to go back. Revisit that charred kindling. See how little is left.

Just hours. So many hours that sit in the bank and yield no interest. Counting. Always counting the minutes.

Lovers forgetting this echo of who. Friends disinterested in this sour apple.

Walls not withstanding, it's all so typical.

The shadows that lured them here caused them to lose sight of what it was they thought they saw.

I'm not empty just yet. But I may as well be when you listen, but don't want to hear.

You try to take me like a picture, but I'm the one with the lens.

Turn off the auto focus. Learn how to see me again.

I'm here. Right where you've always been looking.

I'm here.

Being myself again.