Hollow
The fight's gone out of me. There's sandpaper behind my eyes, and crawling digits underneath the skin of my back, and I feel poisoned again. I don't feel sharp, brilliant, or intense anymore, but merely dull. Ground against a snakestone until only a lump of rare earth remains.
Words from my past flit impossibly through time to enter the present, taking an unlikely and painful route through the short space between us into my ears. Strange how that happens so much to us - the exact same phrases repeated with the same tones and punctuation - like we're in a sick dance that we used to do with others and haven't noticed in the pits of our hearts that the dancing partner is different.
I don't think I can wait. There will always be another reason to postpone the decision, and never making one is far worse than anything else. I've said this before, and meant it, but still I'm here, unable to think about anything else, still waiting.