Our slowly passing days, like so many dogeared pages, stained with tea and tears from yesteryears, watermarked and worn with endless strain.
And I can imagine an ocean of water for miles hanging above my head. And I can imagine the vultures gathering down at the foot of my bed. I can imagine the sky a golden crimson red. But I’d rather not imagine how this ends.
I find that my mind always strays to the numerous potential ways that we could break beneath the weight of so many aching, lengthy days.
And I can imagine whole scrolls of words going unwritten or unsaid. And I can imagine a patch of earth eventually replacing my bed. I can imagine the sky a golden crimson red. But I’d rather not imagine how this ends.
I find that most of the time I’m fine if I imagine you instead.
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