but Fuck it we need some Ends

Hours pass underneath your fingertips and you don't know how to count them when they aren't made of money. The end of March is sunny outside your shoebox but the wind that crosses through your window whispers of winters in your bones. You are unafraid of the cold now, watch it dying like a defeated villain that you weren't the one to slay. See a familiar face along the river and wonder how to explain the call of the Road beneath your nails. Keep it a secret a little longer. 

Back on the page, your heroine trips and falls, looking back at you with her accusations. You wish you could apologize in a way that meant you'd make it right. But parents are flaws, we can only do the best we can. 

And for the first time in years, there's an ember in you that says you can do better.