faces meet at horizons;
where teardrops slide down valleys,
into ponds of lava,
only to become sweet wax.
The children swim through,
curious of the shape wax takes in their hands.
And as night comes,
they freeze in their place.
Stuck in a mold they never meant to mend.
Suffice to say you’re right
During our siestas, we dream of lost hopes.
Our mysterious gazes fall to the past, where what we left behind, creeps up to haunt us.
Awoken with a sweat, apologies seem pointless,
As we silence the stars, and drift away yet again.—