Snow stuck to the bottom of our shoes, we’ll run across ice and whisper across burnt snowflakes emerging from the flames, little smiles in smaller envelopes, untouched in metal mailboxes by the curb. Lights will shade the stars from the sky so we’ll grip the bottom of mountain tops and pull ourselves over the summit to something like infinite pinpricks of white fire across the night.
We’re just two bumps on a spinning sphere on our shared side of space, but I don’t think I’d have it any other way. There’s nothing more not something than little thought bubbles suspended over our heads in the quiet before the blurred chaos, so we’ll run for the concrete walls of an empty space in a big city and abandon our mailboxes for P.O. boxes on a grid of shared sighs and pursed lips and eerie eyes among the rush of becoming.
Becoming what? We’ll wait for our buses and tiptoe across our bridges but we’ll never know the already signed promise of becoming until the lights die down and we can be patches of a shining sky once more.