These walls around me keep getting closer into my breathing space. The ceiling threatens to crush me, bone by bone. But the windows appear friendly and inviting. The sky is bluer than blue. The air is cool, crisp and cleansing. I recall very little of what moved me in the past: the scents, the textures, the sights and sighs are all pale smears on an off-white canvas, their traces inconstant, lazy and weak. You used to fascinate my senses and my intellect and now I can’t recreate or remember a single reason why. My fingertips keep tracing meaningless words in a box full of sand, my hands keep trying to find the shape of your protection and the strength of your say on absolutely everything, from colors to emotions. I will not stay. The timeline of you going from my cathedral to my trashcan is as clear as blonde caramel, and just as well executed. The time it takes to get to the right shade is worth every escalating degree of heat and every molecule of water gone. Its ability to burn like hell is an earthly beauty and a risk worth taking… and perfectly well taken. I have no regrets- just the sheer daydream of crystal sweetness dissolving on my tongue and messing with my senses.