Seven

It is not an easy operation.
Removing myself from me.
I lie in the bed.
Bleached and dirty.
Sheets aching upon my skin.
I look at the clock.
Counting down.
Twenty three.
Six.
One hour. Two.
Seven jumps out of line. Punches me.
A story never to be told.
That I will never tell.
I lie awake.
Look at the clock.
Wish that the numbers would stop.
That home would become again.
At 2 am I follow the green.
In the back of my eyes. Shiny.
An Emerald City.
The sadness echoes in my stomach.
Time is falling back.
Moving on.
Every second drags me further away.
From home.
From me.
My time will remain ahead of me.
iamlosingeverytingiamlosingeverything.
I look at my foot.
The purple and black line that rests there so persistently.
So easily.
A track. A trace.
A certain line back to me.
A road that never fades from me.