blood is filling our lungs & the room won't stop spinning. it's
only now that we notice the ghosts in the mirror are us. we built these walls. somewhere, choking on words, in some far-off room, away from the fallout, we'll never make it out. and should this room become a morgue, our bed a coffin, our secrets will die with us. so still, so sterile. there are ghosts there, behind the headboard, under sheets. they keep us from sleep. footprints on carpet, and stark white walls keep secrets hid in plain view. and when our buildings topple, we will meet in the wreckage. among ashen remains, we'll be burning ember and we'll not leave any tracks. by sunrise, the wind will displace us. it'll be as if we were never there. and you said that there's not a word to believe in either of our whispured assurances, but we find solace... and we won't forget the sound of ruined gray cities, of shadows, and the silence...
