hourglass twirling

the i in her we is as obstructive as her concept of who she sees me to be.
she thinks she understands, she thinks she can see something beyond the borders of black and a sort of blurred opaque,
but how can she...
she remains in a state of complete monotony, mirroring the reflection of some obscure shade of what could be...happiness.
i don't know where that is.
you can't be whole when you've given up bits of yourself to other people.
sand blows its babies into a desert with the simple ease of an hourglass twirling.
you can't be happy when you refuse to believe your eyes when you see the tip of a better tomorrow surfacing just over the horizon of your damaged heart.
i start to say comforting things,
you stop hearing beauty.
i stop saying comforting things,
you don't make it your duty to change the state we've been cemented in.
instead you start to unravel what's been done to you for the hundredth time.