Sometimes, I'm alone and just here. Getting past you, him, myself and everyone. Getting by. Waiting for time to pass. For the record to play out, and morning, when birds sing in their ringing tones and I then I can leave you, for now, and forever, probably.
And I am beauty, and I am lost and I am a fallacy of who I once was.
And who remembers who I was then anyway? As that artist and a muse. Not me. Barely. Not me. An object of pleasure. Was I lonely? Yes. Say yes. Who can even remember what it was like.
That hold. That hold on me. Please hold me. Hold my hand. Pinch me. And I was... Please hold me. Please. And I was lost. I, a shadow. I, a ghost and art. In a moment of your time. And I was together less and more than now. Now it's over.
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