The side of the bed he sleeps on is now wrinkled, faded and stained. The thread that was aligned, he separates them in his pain and he turns, and beyond the things he can't see in the dark, the glow of a mouthful ignites fires to his face and he sweats and he waits, but it stays and keeps his eyes open, even when he thinks he is asleep. He reaches for his phone but only to check the time. There is nothing he can say. Time passes and days pass and even in his dreams, he does not walk alone with you. He does not touch your lips or raise the small hairs on your wrist. Your eyes never soften and he never feels the warmness of your breath floating from your lungs as they take the air around you and turn it into something sweeter. His imagination is an old man, and he's already dead and he doesn't know it. All he sees is you sitting alone by a fire, and there is no ground to step on, no sky to climb towards. He only watches you and sometimes you see him too. You look just like him. Dawn comes and he gets out of bed and drips to the sink. The dirt on the floor crawls to his feet and nobody laughs. He takes a shower and it's no fun. He forgets to dry his arms and stares into a mirror. He can't even formulate opinions anymore. The days turn into nights but he walks around in it anyway. Synapsis fire and muscles pull stretched from tendons with ligaments woven in joints that burn body parts with no high or happiness, just painful existence as he puts on his silly clothes and opens all the closed doors to make room for his path. Yet he knows it makes no difference where he goes. On the street he sees bodies slouching around aimlessly, sweaty flesh sugary sacks that hold like unclaimed baggage forgotten by the elderly. In a moment your face replaces this unfortunate imagery. It feels like music whispered secretly in the ear of his stomach. It plants seeds in his chest that blossom into feathers and he feels like an eagle, flying, but with chicken wings. He soars high above frozen clouds and for a moment before he falls to his death, you mean everything in all of him. But then he leaves you alone because he remembers, he is alone. He can feel his face and wants a cigarette. The air is thin and now the grays are pulled from the sunshine to make ashy clouds that form for him the ashtray he thinks he needs. Here is your fire, here is his cigarette. He inhales what you burn of him and now he's dizzy, coughing nauseously. His teeth are rotting and his gums are diseased, yet it's the only way he wants to breathe. He feels like he's dying but he doesn't believe it's real. He has found something. He knows he will stay awake, he knows there is still the rest of the day. But more than anything, beneath the soil, the blackened coals and the dead autumn leaves, there is a happiness that hibernates inside his bones, simply knowing that you exist.
In that, he will be okay.
