Witherless upon dimension,
In which, I choose to secede.
Tiresome I’ve grown, as the astral grasp of my spirit has born demure tenderness of which I know no appreciation.
Hopes aimless and I too,
Choose to be forgotten.
Of which it is to hold in my mind, dear –
I’ve decided I want to stay with you; for you, you of all you’s I’ve encountered.
I feel my sadness linger as your echoes reveal themselves in every face, of all the ones that say hello..
Then abruptly leave.
Seldom do I wish to stay focused on this feeling.
Perhaps loneliness is no state of mind, forced upon choice?
I don’t think it quite correlates either.
I hope you see the way to fruition.
I don’t know what’s been made of myself lately anymore; we’re onto something new entirely…
petrichor - archive 