I’ve constructed familiarity around pages upon pages but somewhere amongst changing leaves, my eyes grew weary of hope and hardened through apathy, illuminating the chapters that move too swiftly to recognize they’re subtle yet inevitable transformations.
Bleeding paper planes floating underwater through years of spinning atoms.
This pen is not my own.
These pages were fashioned by stories upon stories.
Fables are our family.
Our rocks skip better at night.
Ceasing to exist may not leave this harsh air as clean as we’ll remember but as we’ve fought our demons before, it was always a boat shy of an ore situation. Circles. Upon circles.
Bread crumbs by our bed sides. Leaving on our hall lights.
because when I’m not with you
all I am,