lights out.

I’ve been drunk off cynicism, stranded in the basement. About a month ago I was sitting on your bed, we were blowing smoke into mirrors and telling stories with a camera lens.

Everything is slipping out of grasp and I can feel the friction on my fingertips. I’ve learned to let go in the past, but I fear that now I’ll let go of anything with ease. I don’t know if I’m ready to give up on this one yet. Apathy is already digging my grave. It couldn’t hurt to keep caring, to keep trying. That's not true though, caring seems to be a tragic flaw.

And last night, I’ll remember every word you said to me, because you barely spoke a word to me at all. You lips may have been moving, but your eyes said you were moving on.