Perhaps the lack of words is a reflection of the emptiness. Not inside, but around me. Emptiness in the repeated faces, the repeated act of moving from one moment of tuned happiness to the next. Brick faced restaurants consuming us with the promise of calm over a meal, my over-exaggerated sighs masking my panic.

I build ultimatums made of paper hearts. They fall over as easily as they fold. Never have I stood so close to willingly losing myself. Teasing the precipice. Never have I been so afraid of being lost. I build bridges with myself, severe ties with memories stacked high, only to rebuild again from the debris.

Locked in the whiteness, the words have made a home in my bones.