Should we flee from the roguish fools of the town? The xylophonic silhouettes of our souls are turning into the mists of the morning dews. Our woven dreams are caught in the rails of the rusted trains.
I remember your loose tongue flicked the words, “In between, we won’t be still.”
Are we still home; our spirits in the motionless cycle?
Our words become words; only and just.
It is a rising dawn, when I wake up beside you. Your sound features latch into my lungs. I graze your lips. “Soon.”
I sport my trashed clothes and move to the door.
WORD COUNT: 101
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