Whispering comes,
leaving needless destinations
for our feet to find
when we are always
crying on the shoulders,
where the temptations
decide where we
want to hide.

Love blows
in different directions
its sterile seeds,
raising nothing more than
husks to create more of
those familiar shadows.

For we will be
always yearning to
discover what we
were not meant to believe,
remaining lost on a highway
that never upkeeps speed.

Wanting saviors
to dispel the same whispers
we both turned our attention to,
dividing our forms down,
from the head
to our aching gut.

Whispering will cease,
after we've recognized that this
was never a treasure to kiss.
We believed in miracles
when all we received
are the same scraps
to feed desperate hearts.