small boats made from old
newspapers, a small puddle
that bleeds into a narrow
stream, and us. well, not
us exactly; more like our
souls trapped into a smaller
form than we're used to.

in those boats,
we sailed that
narrow stream
to uncertainty.

once there,
everything
became
one big blur;

everything
we knew
about each
other,

wasn't true.

we had lied
to one another,

but why?

we watched
as the words
on our boats
oozed out,

knowing that
when the rain
stops, the damage
would still be done.