There’s a conveyor belt–slow moving. And You, you have your feet glued to it, letting it carry you–never walking yourself.
In between–you and I; space grows like weeds and we spread further and further apart.
In between: I rise and fall a hundred times…hopeful one day; devasted the next; courageous one day; a gooey puddle of muck the next.
I cup my hands around my lips and scream my yearnings to you: pleas of desperation, in between sleepless nights and sugar binges, on my knees, I ask
And you–you glide by, feet glued to that conveyor belt