I could write you into being

This is not the sound of an unraveling. This is the sound of words mixing, love protruding and leaving a space. In its absence a time has formed; one of empty bottles and barrels that were once filled with satisfaction. I drank them empty of their sins for lust of things. The liquid of your mistakes seeps into my body and I have made you whole. I am left in a state of inertia and stoic becomes my phrase of mind. If lack of movement was a mood, I am in it. If you were a choice, things would be much simpler. If humans were an object to be found and bought, meaning would cease to be important. There is not quality and quantity, there is no need for satisfaction. Just the unending sound of numbers marching and fingers typing to form one single thought for the mistakes of t-
Each sentence is a fragment- a fragment of a thought- independent of the other, making sense in sound but not together. They tell a story, separately, combining to form an essence- not a story.