Going and gone, like the fading lustre of summer as bronze leaves take flight.
Gone, just like that golden sunlight.
Replaced by relieving empty.
Those feelings and the concept of you at the bottom of the riverbed,
Now head, distorted by the stream, to the shore,
Carried to oceans far, where deceitful sirens shall sing away the lies I conceived,
And in the deep sea I shall see, how nothing was to be.
I will rip and shred and tear my insanity,
I’ll rid it of its disguise, and no longer as an Eden shall it lie,
I will view reality and abandon me; I am not a victim to the cruel beats of the typewriter keys in my heart.
I am the ink and the letters and the paper, and I decide.
And with reckless relief I fly-
Away from this lonely floating rock, twirling in the abyss of space,
With its tiny people clinging,
following the thunderous clicks of the typewriters in their chest,
People who are nothing but contradictory pseudonyms for another author.
Up here, crystallised, chest imploding,
You are paper thin.
With your weak chin,
And your smile that made my love feel like sin-
All as thin as the atmosphere, as thin as summer light.
“Paper thin,” I mutter, in the autumn,
“Paper thin,” is whispered in the winter din.