I am split-second slide shows. Like subliminal marketing from the 1960's, thoughts of me interfere and fade. Endless charades. You'll never truly be 'over it'. Sorrow is becoming cliche. I'm tired of these fingertip evaluations, but like a drug I keep coming back. Imagery has a choke hold. Like a projector in the back of my mind; you're Oscar-worthy.
Responding to my 'I miss yous' with 'you shoulds'. Just erase these lips; you've rendered this tongue useless. Make me believe. cast faux shadows while you're up and down. Derail my trust and fall asleep on the track.
