i’m not sure i’m capable of being loved right now / i feel safe in my quiet way of living and telling my secrets to thread & paper / i don’t know what i’d say if you asked me to know myself / more
There is too much tension in a finale that approaches yet never arrives.
Days filled with fear, weeks of anxiety, a year of dread and anticipation.
A when, not an if. The exit sign glowing at the end of the hall, a hallway that shrinks and stretches in ways I cannot begin to comprehend. Yet there are times when the door is clearly open and the wall behind seems to shove me through.
Then I blink and find myself back at the end of this ever shifting, seemingly infinite, hall.
Was it a warning? When you told me the end was coming. Or was it just a notification? The anticipation drained from this moment, anticlimactic. There is no explosion, the wick reached its end and all that followed was silence and an empty home.
