....and I was wrong.
this pocket feels heavy...

She chose
her weather...

The voice preached within
her veins, passed to her head...

I saw the road behind me
fold into the setting sun...

there is no going back,
her voice echoed...

They swayed
into darkness...

Chills tapped on his spine
as the street light flickered...

I wrote poems with
letters that do not exist...

They randomly wrote words
upon mysterious souls...

a white screen
staring back...

Trying to grip onto that last hope
with a signal that has been lost within...

Floating objects on
a calm sea riding on crests...