Yall Get Scared Now

The story behind your eyes, the story that I'll never hear. The story
whose intrigue is waning. People shore up their saddnesses, tuck them
away underneath their fingernails, in the area behind their eyes that
gets hot when they cry, waiting until there's enough time to go back
and deal. Time has a tendency to march on, and the past accumulates
like a brick wall building a fortress around our tomorrow. How would
things have been different, how would they have been different? The
question cannot even be addressed. Once you pick at the foundation, the
whole structure begins to crumble.

So we must meet apart --
you -- there; I -- here
with just the door ajar,
that oceans are,
and that pallid sustenance --
despair.