Two would be heroes, plastering through the Rembrandt conversations, silver tongues and ostentatious. Only by the night. Only by way of exuberant jubilee. Walking disasters, but totally in love. Everyone loved them dearly. They were magnificent, and fragile.

It would be excused by the way the clamshell closed, and they slept soundly wrapped in red velvet, encasing a giant pearl.

My odyssey has not yet been had, though I live it day by day. His journal has collected dust. I have empty pages, and songs unsung. Pharaoh won't let me go. Brother won't pull me away. I'm avoiding jumping the gun and taking the early exit. These highways and paths, and toll booths, sure put life in the 10 items or less lane. No baggage means a flight just as slow as the woman who brought everything, and her Pomeranian named Douglas.

I don't know if I'll become who I thought I should be. Maybe I will.
Maybe the sun will always set, and make my heart feel the way it did tonight:
watching the ember and pink spill the sky with brisk air and biting fear of the future.

All will die, it just matters who with.