I am all splintered pieces, nothing more than crumbling parts. Another body among many, my tired limbs aching at you to make my failed dreams come true, my fingers bringing all our dead things back to life — it’s sick, it’s sad. And we both know what I’ll say by now, the why of it. What I always say, time after time, like a drone: I’m falling, still falling for you. After such time, over time, through time, from time out of mind. Falling down that twisted pit – always falling – can’t escape it. A feeble pretext to keep you with me. This is the problem with introspection: you come to realize what’s been lost, all that’s missing.