the sweaters we used to wear still echoed a sound of clothing hovering underneath the tightropes we clip them on, for we were taught that way.
as a kid, we grew up with clothes hung on these strings that hold pieces of us. our childhood, i mean. back when the mud stains were less than the ripped parts for they say you can't remove the scars of things torn. well, at least we can sew them.
white thread through the eye of the needle, often situated to compromise two sides of things to be tied together. holes in each piercing, like jewelries on clothes set to erase the space between parts.
keep the bounds as close as possible to make things look invisible, an illusion we call cleanliness. yet, some things are just a matter of perspective, ideas so intricately carved into the minds of people who choose to believe what only makes sense.
when the leaves have rustled and the twigs have swayed, do you think it's the ocean who speaks when its waves start to rise?
we hang our sweaters on thin ropes to try to dry out the snowballs we got hit with, back when the machinery of winter grounded us to numbness, or getting used to the cold.
sometimes, we only believe things that keep us on a steady state. our sanities still stuck on the brim of the empty coffee mugs when we sipped our childhood goodbye.
you had your own sense of magic just like everyone else does but we were both situated in places where the world believed in the essence of words.