Consider myself temporary.

I am pushed.
Pushed away after giving my all.

My heart on my sleeve
as well as in my hands,
which stay outstretched towards you...
always will.

Your name,
an automatic cause and effect.

My eyelids slam shut,
faster than one might imagine.
Holding back what you bring out of me...
the worst.

As if my foolish efforts,
to hold back a trail from my right eye
will change how you feel.

Curled in a ball,
I run the tips of my fingers
across the fibers on my floor...

Impatiently waiting,
waiting for a sign,
something that tells me to get back up.

In the darkness,
red dashes form numbers,
reminding me that at 3 in the morning
no sign will come.

The world may as well be dead at this hour.
I may as well be dead at this hour.