over at mary's place

i wasted so, so much time.
to think that it, the two of us, could be something by now, a something that would be walking and terrifying in equal measures, and yet.
but that wasn't wasted time. now the future is a painful yet obvious point, every day. to think that so much time was wasted. but without it, the present wouldn't be.
i'm torn between joy and melancholy. my self was lost, confused; now, found, is it my self?
the sky curves away in a purple dusk over windows of light and roof-shaped shadows. i wach the candles burn and think about identity.