Under the Rain

I'm going to tell you a secret.
Most of the time, I wish I were a combination of dust and vapor, curling beyond your eye's distinction.
I want to disappear quickly, shedding my skin in watery sheets, all above a tree that's already dead.
I want nobody to miss me. I wish nobody would miss me.
Because I'd be out in a flash, wading through a bog of discontent into a world where resting meant dying and pausing meant you'd stop forever.
I'd never move again, you know.
And it terrifies me.

Because, realistically,
that means that when I'm laying in bed, I want to stay there till my flesh is stretched against my bones like sickness.
And when I'm driving, I want to go until my tank is empty, so when I stop, I'm stopped for good, and I won't be coming back. I wish you knew that I wouldn't miss you nearly as much as you think I would.
I wish I didn't have to move.

And I'm scared out of my mind that tomorrow I'll wake up
with no idea what living means.
I'll turn over, shut my eyes, and never open them again. Forget that black's a color.
It'll be my world.