A swallowed storm from the inside,
so passive and calm the exterior,
that the languid gaze,
a smile fixed ever so carefully,
every line delivered exactly as it was written,
so the story marches to the same tired drum.
it doesn’t really matter now,
the sun set,
the moon hidden behind the clouds,
so that not even the stars shine bright enough,
to glow through the haze of buried treasure.
that never even left the pages,
never had a chance to sink oceans in their wake.
gone before they ever were.
you were everything,
you were mine,
and you never really existed.