Sighforsoreeyes

In my sleep last night, I reached out my hand to you and I let my vision blur so that I didn't have to think about all the reasons that we shouldn't be together.

And in my dream, you were good to me and you were serious and we didn't ask ourselves if we were better off without one another and we didn't even recognize foolish pride.

It wasn't in the vernacular because this was a string of silent beautiful moments that added up to us rejecting everything modern, especially the idea that we had outgrown each other.

Or had we?

We emanated from a generation of takers. Of people who liked to play Battleship and Jenga without the cognizance of Pangaea. Of wafflemakers and misplaced nostalgia. Of tracing paper.

Of stencils. Of fucking stencils.