I told you to keep running with my silence, keep using it to form what you believe to be your own on late nights in the middle of your own sunsets and rises, breaths in and out across tablecloths littered with glasses you forgot contained the things worth forgetting. Remembering your own pieces by using essences of brass and torn across moments rippling through you. I am only to you what you could possibly be to me, but never will be. Tether your emotions to the ends of a bird’s wings and watch them gallop forward before breaking off into the bits of things we find blowing in wilderness breezes thinking we found them first, felt them first. Jovially laughing at our self-discoveries not about ourselves. Let me tell you one thing and that is that nothing is new, it is only new to you.