Like running headfirst into an apparition
Desperate to recreate an embrace that never existed
With a person known only through the secondhand memory of a rival
When losing the argument with your reflection in a pocket mirror
Becomes the setup for the kind of revelation
That sees you waking underneath the crushing onslaught
Of neverending tidal shifts that you've no choice but to swim against
For the amusement of the masses that can't even fake interest
At the tiny, struggling image of you, tucked away
in the corner of their mind's eye.
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We were all strangers in the good old days.
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