Pass

There's a restless wandering that happens in the bleak hours of the night,
Summoning upon the thresholds of some unfamiliar skin
That you wound up contemplating back in your teens.
You dreamt of this.
The fall out was something more than just tangible, something common and
Not fallen upon this stark and trusty road.
Writing for the act of rambling.
Rambling on to subdue of the wily throes of passion.
No passion.
No passive aggressive.
No nothing
Let it all die.