maybe things are a little better on
the other side of the bridge, but
each time is
not the same--

there are some days where we'll
lay in the grass side-by-side and
look up into the sky as if
those clouds will paint
tomorrow's story.
these are colors too white to describe,
shapes too ambiguous to decide--
you'd say, that hesitance is
tomorrow's history.
as if the world is at your feet
and you have nothing to lose.

so we let go.

tomorrow we'll drive by mcdonalds on
unnamed roads to unknown cities with
nothing but the clothes on our backs
and the wind in our ears.
the music is
playing louder now, and that beat
is ingrained in our hearts.
it'll be freedom in a way we've never imagined
half-hearted risks we've never taken,
fogged up windows and crookedly-drawn hearts
in the nostalgia of tomorrow's history.

it's just the wind, now, with silent lips.