I would fall upon 236 gravestones before I found a name to suit the loneliness of the air. Wet and clinging to my brow, gray drapes across the windowed sky. I can't keep words like this, one across another, running into stolen pages.
            Now, I am only fascinated by shoes. Covered in mud after late night walks in the hopes of meeting oneself on the empty street. For always. For you, we walk into dusk and drown in drifted skies. The air manages to be so heavy in our chests. Our chests full to the brim with granite hearts.