There is no ending space between the gaps that lay between us.
Fingers point to the extent where there is only an inch till touch.
How far behind I left you, yet you stand direct.
Doors start to close, temperature rises, hot heads, beating hearts.
Every opportunity has its advancement, has given its hand to you.
Only you can turn it away.
Pursuing may help but ultimately you will be lost.
Without that ailment of your own mind.
The mess that lay in the past or awaits you is not for bereavement.
All that matters is you now, how you feel momentarily.

That rising euphoria, as I organise running chaos inside me.

A.M.Dale