Beyond a wooden door there is a room where we sit and grow three years older together. Many words spoken, all ranks broken. But a thing is always thereβ staining whatever it touches. Blackberry juices fingerprinting all of my bright white hopes. A thing molts in the stale air, trailing feathers that wean and wane by the force of our hot breath; always there in that room where we denied tomorrow every credit it begged for. A thing we gave every other name aside from its given. A thing. A simple thing.