They've all got stains on their fingers where they used to touch the ones they loved. paper napkins crumpled and useless, with their life stories written in every single smear of lipstick and spot of grease. thrown away and forgotten, histories and metamorphoses escaped and buried. hiding behind windows and walls, life is now solitary confinement, the ghosts of faces keeping company with moths and cobwebs. push back their pallor and feed them red mouths and spit, reminders left on pieces of cloth that are better left forgotten in the dust. fingerprints smudge mirrors, memories too much to look at in the mornings of dull and grey. empty hallways echo footsteps that have long deserted those wood floors; long lost cries fill the space between what was and what they don't want to admit. perspectives shift and change and rearrange, altering like their hair color and the amount of skin above their waistbands. the way they used to be is too much to stomach when all they want is to forget. the seasons turn with the axis of their regrets, one day nostalgic and the next remorseful as the skies and leaves blur into a pallet of delusion. trickery rims their coffee mugs, lies remain beneath their ornamental beds. who they are is who they were before they tried to hide, a seeking game left incomplete.
