Now its years since your body went flat and even memories of that
  are all think and dull, all gravel and glass. But who needs them
  now -- displaced they're easily more safe --
  the worst of it now: I can't remember your face.
    Return.
    For a while, with the vertigo cured, we were alive -- we were pure.
  The void took the shape of all that you were, but years take their toll,
  and things get bent into shape...
  Antiseptic and tired, I can't remember your face.
    Return.
    You were supposed to grow old. Reckless, unfrightened, and old,
  you were supposed to grow old.
    Return. You were supposed to return.