the yellow sun tells its stories. in bits of flesh and drops of blood. a proper thief amongst so many imposters.
the dark clouds write their verses in often liars and seldom lovers. sages of circumstance in time machines made of velvet.
i do recall the first encounter and the last. they were much too similar i've decided.
the stop signs sing their songs. in steep bridges and absent goodbyes.
the wind listens as the distance becomes us. it's always that far. always has been. nothing changes except how much it hurts.