Once, on the horizon, there were trees, sunsets and
mountains, now it’s a black line
It is hard to see when the only vantage
point is two feet from the tip of a nose
The dangling weight inside the chest pulling eyelids closed and aching, oh the
aching
Everything is against the grain, this is not what I am, but pointing fingers
remind
I would touch you but,
I would talk to you but,
I would tell you I love you but,
These tears are all I have left, and they burn
Making a postage stamp out of the big picture