and the wandering continues through abandoned boathouses where we hung up our words at night
soaked to the bone in emotion and despair yet clinging to the hope that tomorrow would bring smoother tides
how could we have known that silver only lasts for so long before it tarnished, and inspiration is nothing if not fleeting?
the wood of the docks is decaying now, along with dreams had in years past that got tangled up in our lines before we ceased trying to cast them anywhere anymore.
but I still watch the sunset every night and wonder what would’ve happened if we had gotten into our boats and never looked back.