the clock takes to 4/4 time;
i'm here but rooted somewhere else.
i'll pluck the flowers off of me to
fashion you a bouquet – but there
are none, i think the last part of me
has withered last night. you no longer
gaze at me, but look – an unattached
observer, i was always eclectic you
recount, but lately there has been
no rhyme or reason. i speak to you,
in a different tongue, but you do not
hear me. it's as if gravity has shifted
and i am the only one suspended in
free-fall. you're an anchor, you anchor
me, you’ve me loose, you’re not you,
you never were you. you don’t remember
the garden of that quaint little house by
the school do you? it was always in bloom,
even in winter – you know what i've done.
Prompt: ‘Tell us about your phobia but without telling us what your phobia is’ by em in the napowrimo thread
