At the end of the day, we are all made the same. The same opaque bones than turn translucent, the same neuron structures and the same moonlight, pale and rough. I might speak to you again but definitely not now. It’s not the right time to debate our odds. When the darts have been blown into a tornado and our minds have become numb to another dimension. I search out again for a different comfort, than the one I thought I needed the most. My fingers stay the same even after years, of climbing and falling down a couple million times. Work a job or two to make ends meet, so we could meet again on a candlelight evening. Dusk and dawns pierced with thorns, of a forgotten rose kept alone.
