• I raise my finger towards the sky and outline the pattern of our hands;
    The simple things that kept us close become harder with each tracing bump-
    Are the lines as blurred as they were before, when we scattered away the acrylic lines for chalk?
    Are we as innocent as the children lying silently on the hill, watching the stars fade and come with the shifting day?
    Or have you left me for harder ground, which my shaking legs can not handle?
    Trembling, i finish the incomplete portrait of your leaving hand, and the back of your head will never looks towards me again.

    And yet I know

    "These chalk hills will rot my bones."