There’s something horribly melancholy about your face. You’re meant to be painted in pastel shades in dull light and framed in wide screens of rolled film, stacked in shoe boxes in the attic for ‘later use’.
You’d know that doesn’t really make sense but hell, you’re not real and I’m not as great as I think I am. For now it’s okay that you’re only the ghost of contentment and the temptation of comfort that seeps like a mist through what the reality is, scattered on my desk.
You’re forever pulling me with an arm around my waist, away from the real world while I desperately cling to the table, knuckles bruised from rubbing against the wood for too long. Sometimes, you win and the chair falls back with a snap, and I resign myself for wherever you take me. I lose hours. When I’m back, the sharp stabs of an insatiable want for just a little bit more of you constantly nags at me and pulls my hair until I’ve done enough to buy me another day.
There should be a passionate goddamn it in there somewhere, I think.
It’s a bit silly that I write of winter hurting me when cities are burning, so I’ll stop here.
I may never be great, but I want to be good.