Walking around my office, I noticed a thing or two,

Pulling the pen from my head and into my fingers, the pad of paper from my eyes,

Something has shift to the left, a few inches left, enough for me to notice.

A shift, a shift! Not more than it, yet enough for me to distract me from menial tasks.

Here I come, across a stillshot, a spoil in the dark, you illuminated in a sly silhouette.

Passion is no tragedy, it's a thought in action and clearly, there cannot be a clear view when you've blinded

Yourself with a truth.

I traced it, I admit. The residue the sheet left was enough evidence, in a quick short-coming of attraction.

Laughing and embellishing the moment, I picked up the phone to explain the situation,

Only to put the receiver off the hook, to hear the overtones of a dead call hang on end.

Again I see with my own eyes, tired with digestion of lies and honesty alike,

The smile that caused me all of this.

We're nothing more than strangers walking along the city blocks,

Staring at nothing and everything in perspective of the transleucant homeless girl and girl.

Had it become so much of a shock?

I saw this coming from your train station, which is of instrumental use in your escape. 

Boy oh boy, can I not wait for your collateral.

At the end of the day, caffienated and all,

I took the liberty of clearing of that stillframe, still enthralled by its familiar actress and idol.

You could have simply said "I don't want to" and I couldn't force you to degrade yourself that way,

Perhaps, though, you rather enjoyed that I dragged you along for the journey of a lifetime,

Through madness, illness, atrophy and sweet, sweet surrenderings.

The dirt that got into your scathed knees would only make you better, you told me once,

That you would catch my fall, even if atop a quadripalegic statue, gesturing to the concrete surrounding it.

You said you'd save me from the thorns from the roses in your hand.

But what is the proof of that? I have the scars laced across my back in a slave-like manner, yet you have none?

It's just like you to let your eyes grate my skin at a simple glance,

To shred me to pieces and laugh as I stitch myself together for the twentieth time.

To mouth daggers pointed at me and expect me to dodge and retaliate.

To expect your tongue to contain your poison and shoot me an arrow,

And make the antidote, to swallow it down and become immune.

I must be too stupid to dodge them though,

Too simple to know the poison even still couldn't kill me so,

As for shredding, it's time I get a new skin.

I cannot merely walk about and pretend you don't exist,

Make-believe that I won't need to see you again before I disappear over the clouds to settle farther from you still.

I'm well-aware that you're alive-and-thriving among the rest of them, I can sense you, and I can see your alertness when you see my inaudiable footsteps, and hear the door close in front of you.

All this accumulation, all the repentance that didn't purify the church, I set in your delicate hands,

Terminal to terminal, crash to thrash, I'm leaving you to witness my departure at November dawn.