we are
red brick walls,
chalked with names
by the mercy
of the open hand,
releasing the
pulp of a story,
unraveling
smoke and words
from the roots
of our youth,
where they are
tightly
secured within
deep waters,
as we
walk under
a half moon,
suffering between
prayers and demons
and a diary
written on a
paper heart,
revealing
nothing at first,
then something