The wind likes to make itself scarce,
To never touch the waves more than it needs,
And that's why it travels the world alone,
After it turns towns to ruins, it runs and claims itself freed.

And here we stay jumbled and rearranged,
Watching it as it takes more than it should,
Yet it never grasps the meaning of everything it's taken,
The days will roll as long as the map looks good.

It appears and disappears in mismatched mornings,
And we can never have enough time to be prepared,
For the coldness that petrifies, as it tries to make us believe
That this departure is only done for our sakes.

The wind only knows one perspective to wear,
And it gets washed and re-washed in the downpours we cry,
So it lays there like an after taste after it fades,
Its only ally is that its presence could easily be denied.

So in an ever present fall tumbling into a winter,
We never know when it will hit and what it will take,
So we lay on our backs and let it walk all over us,
We're done being hurt, our hearts shall be opaque.