We are hands clasped tightly together.
There are no chasms between our fastened fingers.
Our mesh of flesh and folds in fear.
We are youth growing in irrational time.
There are no steady beats to guide us forward.
Our rhythm broken by broken beats of parents.
We are breezes blowing through trees at night.
There are no orange street lights for elucidation.
Our eyes reflect the light of distant stars.
We are sweaters clinging to damp skin.
There are no limits to the heat we can achieve.
Our bodies cool when we remove our clothing.
We are volumes spilling from the stacks.
There are no dots or crosses between the lines.
Our story is written in the margins.