It might just be that I've
told myself enough times
to forget it.
To relish in being lost,
and incapable of finding
a new host of answers.
But I want to like them,
not only endure consequence,
not only impure providence
of eyes I can't rationalize.
Told the story too many times
to complain that the system
I'm enslaved to 
isn't quite working.
In a perfect world we'd jump
and remain in thin-air,
no frustration to compare
to weightless fancy.
Instead, we've stopped dancing.