There was this girl, not knowing where she was going.
At all times she wandered, she tried to forget.
What the real world tasted like—she did not know.

Tell her about the songs the sky creates; she'd like that.
Tell her you'll rescue her when she starts to drown
in them; she'd bleed down your name and not care
about the mess she would make.
As if saving someone, who rather have you deluge them
with more rain, was an offense.

One daybreak, the eighth page of my history book went missing.
The next night it flew into my window glass,
and then landed safely on the isle of my hands. It read:
*            The past is behind.
            The future is ahead and may never arrive.
            Why would you believe in them?*

She used to say there's something calming whenever
darkness wraps up the woods. And the silence that comes after it.
And something blazing bright—a cabin.
Never trust cabins, she once said, burn them before they burn you.
I should have listened.