Mismatch.

I know now tonight that you'll probably never call back,
And after you leave this place my face is nothing more
than a distant memory left to sands of abandoned beaches and swell tides
that never break more than three feet over the rock.

And I'm certain that after this break after whatever's been done
that my voice sounds hollow in the distant wake
of the waves crashing on a silent night in paradise,
Along the shore without disturbance or discomfort.

I don't care if you can't retell that perfect story
or whatever small nuance of social comfort you find,
But I'm here, and you're hear, and we make not a sound
lest I lose my composure and you let lights die in the fog.

You'll be a blur by the time I repent and think back to the days where this meant something,
Like a burning photograph spraying vapors across a dead world.
Like I didn't think you had the bite within you too,
But you wouldn't dare to catch my glance on the right night we both got called off.
Here's the end; I wish life didn't involve so many little, complex circles and I wish I could have my cabin where I wrote for the love of it and I never had a care in the world, but life doesn't work that way sweetheart. So wherever you are, and whyever you can't pick up the phone, I just can't deliver my dreams on a platter. Nor yours, so grab a rope and start helping me pull this weight, time will only be our enemy here.