“Good things come and go”
A pretty anarchist said to him
her white knuckles brushing
stringy brunette hair from her forehead
“But they always come”
She let out a sigh he could feel in his bones
and it reverberated to his core

She told me of the magic she found in this world
of spells we cast upon ourselves
Delusions of the grandiose
hiding the beauty of the mundane
Her yellow eyes sunken in
stared intently beyond his
remembering a time before this moment

A time where he recognized
the palms outstretched before his eyes
stained with blood and regret
A mess made and left by others less careful
scars hidden among palmer lines from sharp tongues
Broken mangled knuckles from holding on
to words and promises never kept

“All there is between here and there
is the waiting in the empty spaces ”
The anarchist reminded him
with a smile he could trust
He found a semblance of himself he recognized
in the reflection in the words she spoke
Hidden in between the spaces of her words
he was twelve years old again
The leather bag that held his bones
was no longer outstretched and loose-fitting
and he was patient enough to wait