faint touches become ghostly scars
what once burned bright now only remains tepid embers
and what thin veil laid across the brow
has faded away to a dust clouding of the conscience.
what was once inviting is now too much effort
the escape becomes a portal and no less reachable
(but no less far either)
and the urge to reach beyond the stars
has shrunk in the apprehension of reaching anything at all.
if it stung that'd make it more real
if it was icy to the touch or salty to the taste
then it's quantifiable.
but it's only a whisper in a dream
a curse written into song
or perhaps an epitaph on a grave yet marked.
it's only felt when there's absence of all else
when coils at the feet make it hard to walk
and air trapped in the lungs makes it hard to speak
when no one is around to listen or to pass judgement
it's only felt when there's the guess as to why it's never there at all.
there's no nightmare to walk to or dream to wake from
no longer remains any disdain or resentment
the itch no longer itches and the fires no longer burn
there's an empty space filled to the brim with nothing
maybe filled with the echoes of the spaces that remain
the world that still turns
and the feet that stamper behind.