If I reach further into the compartment of your beauty my hands would lose its grasp. So I fall into the apathy of reality and this slight hindrance becomes this daydream’s formality. Then suddenly I’m awoken by your unspoken thoughts and reminded of your fingertips slithering away from the gloves I still hold today. It’s difficult to shelf these residual souvenirs at the end of each year. That old soft graze became this newborn maze, still holding precedence when illusions disappear. Time doesn’t stand still forever, but it can’t sprint any faster right now.