Today, I Stagnate. Tomorrow, I Break.

I am lying on the floor next to my bed.

The air is dry, and it sears my throat as I drink in oxygen. It is stagnant, wallowing in itself for days, unmoved. I feel dust caked inside my esophagus.

I slump, contemplating the stars hidden behind the ceiling. Just out of reach.
If I broke a hole through the roof, would I see them?

After living for so long, I have come only to focus on the slate of emptiness between each pinprick of brightness. No, I am blind to seeing the stars.

And I slump, contemplating what you and I have become. Left behind.
If I broke down your door and confessed myself, would you see me?

After distance, and trial, and being away and being gone and being invisible, there is left only a slate of emptiness between two pinpricks of brightness.

No...

No, you are blind to seeing me.

I am lying on the floor next to my bed, waiting.