Some stories were never meant to have endings, or be copyrighted and special. Some people were never meant to wander off into bliss unaware, or marry the person that love had intended them to be with. Some sunsets were never just right, but somehow the starry skies afterwards always were, with the winds blowing ashes in his face, it seemed perfect in the “Look at them, they’re better then me and they know it kind of way”. That’s how second best became more sought after and poetry became the new story. Times were changing, and everyone around him knew it except those caught in the fashions and the dreams of the past, the walking dead whose worlds were slower and steps more fearful and trembling. Not a hundred percent at a time anywhere, coming back around was no longer an option because all the roads back were now dead ends. So they wandered, inspired only y the unfamiliar that reminded them of home, and fears that were only a little bit scary and a lot more intriguing. “ I’ve spend eight days awake now, searching for you. But all you are to me is the insanity of insomnia. How do you figure?” and Peter chuckled and said, “I am only a dream to those awake and an ideal to those that understand. But you need to go back, before the insane truly draws you in, in the more non welcoming, non becoming way.” Whoever thought that the wind could ever be ashamed turned out right in the end. It blew quietly and forgave the lovers who’d throw their infidelity and deceit away, to feed upon the love that others gave away as well. The whistling was lonely and the rivers understood, but the moon never could as it ran away slowly from the damned places at night. Whoever knew but Peter, that out light in the night was afraid too.
Fears became noticing which parts stood out the most, and which people meant the most, and the only reasons that some were shunned was because the times weren’t right. No one had ever meant to harm a soul in their wake, except the twisted knives and sharpened rakes. Like Peter was the bad luck that made you fall and cut your knees, that made you call at all the wrong times and leave too many voicemails to count at all, the luck that made teenagers decide whether or not to keep a life. This was all him, and the moon and the drowning, and his counter was the adrenalin rush. The kind that made you scream when the swing went up and down, the kind that put the hearts in a vice grip during falls and breakups, but most of all the rush of driving so fast that the wind couldn’t keep up so it screamed in fear at the windows in it’s own voice and its own way. Their marriage would be this, a kill a poster child of violent and the impacts of dying on the point, in the midst of a bold declaration to each other.