from far away this feels like a closed-casket funeral as i trace your frame on this parchment. long hallways to nowhere: this is where you see yourself in five years. and i'm not sorry for the words that i didn't say, that i couldn't say, that i never had the chance to say. this may seem like a tragedy with open arms, but i'm tired of not getting any sleep. in a couple days we'll take flight into violent skies, and holding hands for the last time; i'm afraid to die. 
in case of a water landing, i hope you know how to swim. i'm treading in the shallows with a thirst for unrehearsed apathy, and you know it. i'm terrified to see your call to arms. 

in these months we tie ourselves to the scarves and jackets we can barely separate from our skin, we find people change and things change. 
you're growing out your beard like you saw your father's. the way you knew you always would be, and his name isn't something you can erase. these months we spend hiding inside paper thin walls filled with holes... every sound. every time. these old houses we haunt without a fixture. 

sometimes i feel the century closing in. everything i know will be cast in stone.