Prose

So I'm back, and wondering.
Is prose...? A lack of penmanship marks me,
or rather, fails to. Something about a cold
night,
lightness of stars suspended below the expanse that is space.

Maybe it's some kind of fragile
moment, this journey that we so preciously value as
self-discovery.
Am I
learning? She stool precariously on the ledge.
Am I becoming? And in a moment, catching the
wind.
Something about tire treads, muddy ground.
Earth, space, smoke dancing between
calloused fingertips. Wait for me, She asks. Or let me wait for you. Silence.
There are thoughts that may form, others that may evaporate
into the consciousness of oxygen and carbon.
Oh, you. Silly thoughts, empty
shells, fucking filterless
cigarettes. So, here we
are. And she sways to and fro, music
irrelevant.