I used to hold a fabric to rule the world. It was comfort, home and sleep. Everywhere I went it went and I was never alone. Familiar and safe. But I let it go. To attain what the world calls it; maturity. Fully developed in body or mind. We were not ready then. On whose benchmark of maturity were we gauged on? 

The wrong thing for the right reasons. 

Today I am aware that she is back. The itch to write, the ache for a cigarette, the silent intentions. 

Who could know what time would show. 

Who could know. 

Louder than anything we ever mention. 

You wish they were dead. You wished they were dead. It would had been easier. All this too seems familiar. The same demands. We need to claw our way out of here, right now. Let us pack and go. Hop on the next flight out. 

Naive. Little wishes to get by. 

Sometimes the music is not loud enough to calm dreamed violence. The shake and shatter of a body. 

Scary isn't it. 

Some form of sadness takes you to places. Alone. 

Rare moments like these. That I am ecstatic. Knowing the impending finality of life is in death has an ultimatum and comforting release. 

Even if it was one drawer left as a weak attempt to own just one thing. Even that little heaven is taken. 

Let it go.