“Isn’t this enough?”

No matter what I utter, no matter how much I struggle,

The silence is deafening, and the echoes of my own wallowing grow louder by the minute.

The more I yearn for them, the more they elude me.

I'm now barren.

But, if that's the case, shall it be?

In a sea of "What ifs,"

My heart is slowly rotting.

Unbeknownst,

I swallowed my own sorrow.

My mind is swamped with echoes.

The bright lights of the city

My heart pounded.

The echoes continue to reverberate.

Myself

I find myself pondering unanswerable questions on a regular basis.

One of them makes a suggestion.

Do I even recognize myself in my own existence?

It's tricky to put one's existence into words.

Could they be sufficient to encapsulate us in a few pages?

Taking a cursory look at a variety of stages

We worry about things like this,

 as if we'll live for a million years, 

as if we're immortal and not just ordinary pairs