Tomb of my Past

I can only sleep when the world is awake.

I spend my darkness in your realms.

I burn the pages I wrote about you

Only to rewrite them every night.

Is it a disease or a habit now?

I can't really tell.

My insomnia grows every single day.

And now I can barely tell reality from dreams.

You seem so real, like I can stretch my arms

And touch you. Yet I can't.

I long for you yet

I don't want you near me.

I fear it will break the illusion of you

That I created around my world.

You are perfect in it, the way I want

Like the role play of a character in my story.

You are like the forgotten lines

Of the poems I once knew by heart.

A familiar face in a stranger's body

You are pictures, memories and places

And a Tombstone of regret

Over the grave of my past.

From The Quill