For all the people
who keep their head
down.
For the people
who know
it's their fault
because this time,
it really is.

And those who
only want to see

the sky when
they don't have to
share it.

The pale eyes
of doubt.

The doubt of
worn shoes.
Shuffling
on leaves.
Leaves shuffling
on me.
For wind.
For the people we'll
never even
see
because they spend
their time
hiding.
Hiding under
sound
and
yesterday's notebooks.
The feeling of
stone
and silver.
Hiding behind picture frames
and keys.
Pretending like every day
is “maybe today.”
For all the things
you do,
like
drink your coffee black
or
stare at fish as they
swim in little circles.
Or when you
write on the walls
or build forts
and fill them
with lights or
daggers
or
letters.
For you.
For me.