Dust collects on courage as we take shelter from the storms. These wings grow frail like the hope that once made the clouds feel like home. Our hearts beat as slow and soft as the falling of cherry blossom leaves. I feel that this world may not be long for us, as we ourselves long to not feel at all. Can you remember when we used to scream at the sky, our lungs filled with beauty and brokenness? We burned like wildfires, consuming everything that dared to get close to us. The light in our eyes used to split the sky and scar the sun. When did our garden walls become a prison? When did the flowers wilt in the snow? When did the water get so dark? Can you feel my heart? Can you feel my heart?