(Big long slur of mixed-up mumblings.)

Pan the images 'cross my crossed eyes. Line them up like criminals and cross out our smiles. Slice open my chest and pull out a heart, weigh it on the scale, how much is it worth? (Make some calculations.) Ahh, that's all good and well, but how can you tell, can you tell, can you tell, what it means? What's inside of that bloody, purply thing? That mangled pulsating mess? That collection of dripping tubes?

(A Libra with Virgo tendencies and unstable mental/emotional/physical/psychological/social processes.) Less than threes, paths lined with trees, so many, too many mes. Walking through the memories, viewing them from a distance like artworks in a gallery (Don't touch!). See the detail, see the artistry? The paint daubs, the brush strokes, the little intricacies?

It's flyin' by. Fast and slow. Play. Stop. Go. I thought once, Life is such a movie; a whisper I wrote, a secret only you can know. Clutch it close, keep it deep inside; so many things to hide, hide 'em in those lines and lines.

I left you behind. All the stutters and smudges in you added up to this great big unanswered question, still unanswered; you've got some blank space in you, think maybe I could fill it up. Maybe I could sum it up somehow, gather up the loose ends and tie them in a knot. No, no, you've rotted away on my bookshelf, and you're an old self, an I-don't-want-to-return-to-that self.

I am sorry.
I am sorry.
It is very difficult.
Stay afloat. Keep your eyes open.