That is all there is

That is all there is, really—
Them – fading in, fading out
Of yellowed pages, the history

... is repeating itself, I am repeating myself
Fingers ghosting just above freckled skin, imaginary
Friends and lovers and those who don‘t leave my bed
For days on end

To the wee hours of morning, to the dawn
Breaking just above seeing point
I squint
Trying to make out them running, bathed in sepia light
Childish, warm brown
(freckled skin, sun kissed irises – blind)

Who are you, what is your name, stranger?
Exhaling, the smoke fading in, fading out
Of my bed when my fingers touch
Sickly white skin, eyelids covering eyes
Blind

Into the wee hours of morning I run
Repeating myself, weaving red thread
Between my fingers, your fingers
Are cold as death

That is all there is, really—
Soft and blurred lines,
Not much to see.