For now,
I'm just a fact robbed of all the lores,
and the staccato notes of a heady hilltop breeze
don't even make sense anymore.

There was a time once,
when my palms used to leave distinct impressions
callosities and creases alike,
merged into one,
form defying,
and defining the formless. 

not anymore..

Silences trickle down my mane where the turbulence of a forest fire once screamed.

Sweaty, determined metaphors which fail howsoever to create any noise.

I failed to create a me, the one you fell for.
And failed miserably.

I'm just a skeptical fact 
rhinestones and rubies,
but no smoke.

I implore you to see,
and shut your eyes thereafter.

As if I'm an apparition,
a trick of lights that you see.

Behold my naked silences and give them a name and identity if you could.

But not life.

No, for if they were alive
they'd run away from me again.