Day Two Hundred and Sixty Nine of Isolation

Words stopped being pretty about three months ago,
that's when the last shine drained from language for me.
I can't pin down the moment it happened, but
I forget the things it's supposed to represent.
I can't picture them, I can't feel them
I don't remember who I am.
I am lost on the metaphor, the phrase has turned on me
(okay, that made me smile for a second)
and this, is just habit now. A ritual I can't stop
repeating to the rhythm of my resentment.
Dead fingers threading dead letters together for... I can't remember.
But this meant something once.
Of that I am still completely sure
for now.