Come Back

We ran away.

We returned.

To taste the phantom copper in our mouths once again.

To feeling the thick hair in our breathing. 

Wandering in the graveyards of saints wearing the shoes of sinners.

Wondering where we went wrong.

If we went wrong.

The old stories don't make sense anymore. The new stories sound like lies.

The tea is made from ashes. The butter from the fat of the dead.

We think we are the last generation until our children are born. And then we hope they are the first to not be like us.

We hope they will be the first generation that never kills.

Never cries.

We look for hope under the gray skies.

In a world that shocks us most when it doesn't end.