Reading that poem made me weep.
I could not tell you if it was because I was tired, or perhaps because I was frustrated with myself, or if it was because I was, yet again for the umpteenth time this year, trying to shake off the feeling of being in close proximity with someone I knew yet still saw as a stranger. But those words, they were honest when I am not.
Everyone these days feels like a stranger.
Why must I do this? You lay in bed next to me sleeping, and I stack bricks between us. Cement and mortar, I mix it in the night, and by the time you wake up, you won't be able to see me. Walls to the ceiling, ceiling to the sky, silhouettes cast in dungeon light.
I awaken in robes of thunder.
Do you know?
Listen closely — such things are always hard to hear over the sound of the waves, the miles and miles of waves between where I am and the land that I love, where the hills grip me in their open arms, and then I am
Ripped ruthlessly from its arms and then I am here and
then you are not and then I am
Do you know that my heart is breaking?