I find myself burdened by the nonexistencies. (Yes, I can make up my own words.) The weight of emptiness upon emptiness grinds itself into my shoulders: blistering reality.
I dearly miss the lamplight coos that only seem to come when eyes receive the glow of skin. I wonder what beckons the words out of your heart and onto your tongue. Is it not Love, with all of its tendrils gently wrapped around your waist? It all began with questioning Distance; its width, breadth, height; I ask - do we ourselves not create its most terrible grievance?
I miss resting in bed. Even without sleep - being rejuvenated by the placement of home. These nights Time itself stares at me through the midnight hours. I think on laughter, comfort, brief deep sadness, loving silence, and the drift of satisfaction that sits on my sill. A friend's importance, reinforced tenfold by absence, intensifies the need for understanding.
There's yet a shadow of Fear at my tail, whose grip I care not to question. I know that if I am to slow down, his claws would surely rip my heels. And now: it is not my want to keep running that has caught sickness, but my vision. Direction means no more to me today than the day I was born. My dreams move the street signs in the dark, so that the only people who can find their way are the children, who never pay attention to signs anyway. Am I to run back towards my youth?
I miss the quality of life that dwells in the aftermath of good communication. I seem to have lost it all within my quaking season.