the clouds have their language. the wind has its songs. but distance is always mute.
we leave. because there are places to be. we go because the reason to stay has left.
the book fell open. a throbbing heart full of inked paper. the sunlight teasing it as it struggled to breathe. with lungs made of trembling adjectives.
the dust flirted with the window pane. her body more paper than skin.
the alarm sounded, but there was no rescue. just the same old thieves. taking what had always been theirs.