You are not me. Although I have not an inkling of what exactly I am, I know for certain it could never be you. You hold riots in closets. Shout out at shadows and clearly I have no time for any of that. You stagger into battle while I have never had the fight in me. I look through it all, absorbing fragments, filigrees of the world. Halcyon dreams taunt and fulfil me. You see only surfaces, creating jagged points of smooth situations. It baffles me. It weakens me and I can no longer carry us both. Collapsing, suffocating, I can no longer play the game that over the years has so cruelly played me. My foundation has suffered and you refuse to acknowledge the cracks.
Where we have been and what you have become fails to hold me fast. I held out, clenching to memories and loyalties that evaporated long ago. All it would take is one smile, one honest laugh, but you have none left in you. I look into lifeless eyes and have prayed for a resurrection but that was always the child in me. Clasping hands with lowered head searching for blind salvation I knew would never come. My sacred breath in whispered pleas float, washing away any sign that you had ever been. Nimble fingers picking at asphodels avoiding images that were all fancy to begin with. This is where I remain, sniffing at death, breathing in wisps of life, fortifying my road with words slipping from my veins like trails of inky epiphanies.
We are past our prime and I can not allow you to lead me out to die. I have struggled to be what I am just as I struggle to figure out what that is, but I am grateful it is not you.

                                        Cos trains don't stop your soul, they break your heart...
                                                 and I have not the smallest thing to give them

The words are things that come to me. Fill me up, weigh me down, destroy my mind, seduce me, and reduce me to a mere shadow. They stroll through my thoughts, ravage my dreams, and deter my sleep to no end. They are concrete dragging me down, buried. They are sounds, delicately shaped on lying lips. Whole verses of flighty heroic poetry. They are my salvation and my sacrifice. I give them out, give them away until I fear they will one day leave me altogether. I bear them, beguiled and bewildered. Always awed by their fragile consistency, their staggering duplicity. They taunt me, call me out in my failure to mount them properly on the blank page. Still for all the fault I could so easily saddle them with, they are all that I am. Wit without words, songs without syllables are not splendid things. All that is left to me is to take them in, roll them about my soul and be grateful. Grateful as I purge them from my being, cleansing my meandering mind, making me whiter than snow. I can only hold onto the whimsical fancy that they will never forsake me. That my fingers will cease to move before they simple regurgitate inelegant babble.