I could probably talk for hours, like moments on a train. But soon the words go up in smoke, no longer the power of a flame.
Yes, the words burn, sometimes they sting- but soon they have no weight, let them go, tie them to a string.
I could probably look at you for hours, like moments of this day- but soon the stare loses it’s meaning. Staring at a blank page.
I could probably melt if you held me like you used to- but I don’t
have the energy to force it. I could mold myself into what you want- be something that I’m not. I won’t lose myself again.
I could probably talk for hours but what good would that do? I’ll always have a better listener when I’m talking to myself.