I wish it was real. More than palid wall paper greying with life.
I wish we were real. Tangible. Something to grip. Hold. Loose strands of hair fall through flame lit finger tips. I feel numb. Dizzy from staring at ceiling fan above. The clandestine hum soothes me. Grounds me. So I don't float away with your ghost. My head hurts more than the fragile trees in the winter's frost. My feet ache from running. It was pointless anyway. Stilled dragged back by brittle bubblegum rope, dangled from steel rods.
I wish you were real. Not just a post it note dream. A blue-black pit tainted by salt like demeanour; as I lay sweeping the waves the ocean spilled. The honey that oozes from your hair, your eyes, seeps through your used up tears. Crisp caramel on plain skin. Sage and thyme. Crying peppermint in graphite pots.
I wish I was real. Not just another face in fish bowl. A closed umbrella on a rainy day. The floorboard etched with sketches of unhinged agony. Claws grip to fraying skin. Phone's disconnected, the melancholy tone swirls with the whirring from the fan. Dancing in the dank air of the cheap hotel. Washed away by a near by river. Eyes flooding like summer love passed. Candles burn on the bed side. Dripping wax pools in my palm. Soft blow pushes me afloat.
We were never real. I was never real.