Homeward bound, moment’s rest, still persistant leads the clock. Hands are fated, not be caught.
Soak these wounds, take the reins, carry on.
Forget me not.
Lights go off.
All that shines is the tall stoic lamps illuminating lightly hued roads, red speckled bus attributes from the windows, and our phones.
Even from a platform in which we hate, we mock as appropriate, it isolates us, draws us closer to destruction, yet even here,
it is beautiful.
Little lights in our hands, silently blazing on.
Power down now. Take off.
Inked my hand up a bit too. It’s become an overnight at the airport tradition.