And I sweat out your fever dream,
but its heat's still painted on me.
I wear you like a sketch of an incision,
a cut not deep enough to bleed.
If there's an honest answer out there,
it's that I've lingered too long.
The ghost of you I thought I knew for so long
was always gone.

/

There's silence in my eyes,
but there's a heat in your heart.
I left my voice on the wind, it tore my words apart.
And pieces of this were best left scattered,
like the ashes of someone loved but lost.
And if I found it buried in the soil,
I wouldn't dig for the purity.
It's a shallow grave
sometimes I think it's ready for what's left of me.