If we could re-write our childhood…

The ground would not breathe, and echoes of our youth would no longer lapse into gray dreams haunting us with moments that never seemed to be enough…

Ribbons of our hope would unfold into distant streams

And those quiet senses of desperation that we held so closely like children would finally speak…

Set sail upon a salt-sweet sea, into a horizon that folds like letters written in times of evening

Harboring to never-ending meadows being lulled to sleep 

As we rest by the dock with tangled fingers underneath the swaying tendrils of a willow tree…

But we were alone…

And the rustling of the wind became the murmur of people that we had hoped would love us in return…