we are sick of distance and only free at the top of mountains while the desert lies dead melted by the neon lights we sit and study clouds moving like thick smoke through sleep our dreams burning with good fortune and it's no wonder we wanted to run away we are still impressed by the mirror we wake to small apocalypses and the wind sounds like applause we write our scriptures in spiral notebooks wondering what they'll mean when we're gone our front lawns are littered with shadows in the middle of the night and we are willing to trade sunlight for our love of absences we have made homes along this accordion highway writing our epitaphs on polaroids of our past lives and we sleep in the shade of a tree that grew from the root of all evil we ignore the symphony of farewells and clocks always ticking to concentrate on the sound of our smiles only the bitter sun sees us as we walk through the desert like those wandering prophets tonight we promise to sleep as though our beds have headstones and wake to paint our dreams on walls