E-strange

I have a cut on my finger. It is a long digit, but the cut is longer. It extends past my blasphemed knuckle and lingers at the base of my palm. In my palm I hold a match. A match is in my hand and is on fire. It burns a charred ring into my skull. My skull bleeds dawn my neck. My ears slide down my shoulders onto my knees. My knees melt into the floor. The floor freezes into a knife. The knife is held by me, myself, only. I cut my finger by accident and bleed on the slice of apple I just cut. I clean it off and put it into my mouth. I chew and the juice from the apple trickles down my cheek.
I will miss you. You won't miss the scar on my hand, or my eyes. But I will miss you.
I wish I could say stop and time would. Then I could bask. Time is not my friend. I am estranged from time. I am estranged from you. You are strange to me.