it's not that we're scared it's just that it's delicate

summer had been a day and a day and a day so far. empty bottles of wine, long sheer dresses touching her ankles, train rides, reading herman hesse on the moss green couch, getting dizzy from looking into the night sky's starryness for too long, quiet songs on the guitar, candy cotton kisses, shimmering hair and exotic cigarettes.

something had fallen asleep somewhere between the floral sheets, morning croissants and the mayan calendar, something so transcendental they couldn't put a finger on it so they just kept going, hoping that it faded soon.

it had to, there was no fighting a translucent idea of a ghost that was constantly in the room.

the power of words had come to an end so there was just going on, making the candy cotton kisses a little sweeter and hoping it would fade.

maybe it were the walls that seemed to get closer, maybe it was the sun that behaved like a shy ballerina, maybe it was that they felt themselves leaving long before they ever did.

they were still wild and free. they just wished for a place where they could feel it a little more.

maybe if they went to marocco, everything would be just fine.