You ask why every morning I bring flowers to your doorstep. Though you don't live there anymore.
And I can't explain.

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In my dreams I keep telling you about the birds coming back home. They land When the blood-coloured sunset flows over the ground. You ask why they still come back. And I don't know how to explain.
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You ask why your memories of me are fading. And you always forget my name.
I'm asking. But you can't explain.
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You do the spring cleaning wearing your rubber gloves so you don't have to touch what's inside you. Your feelings are covered with layers of sparkling glitter and highlighter - they were scattered by a sneaking cat. You rearrange things back and forth just to mix'em up later. And then again carefully put'em on the shelves as if you get how everything works and you're illuminated and flooded with the light of the same insight.
Why do you always forget? why do you forget that you'll forget again?
I'm asking myself. And I can't explain.

Why too close is always so far?