Swirling, circling, swelling, filling the room
And poisoning us both
No matter what he told you, it is not pure
Because there is residue, and imperfection cannot dissipate into the air
It builds up
Creating borders and boundaries, forming walls around you before stealing the ones you had
Is there anything lonelier than self-imposed isolation?
Is the high keeping you company?
Your stitching is coming undone