you're fond of running through the woods
and leaving nothing but trails
of pebble linings or moldy bread crumbs.
sometimes, you also leave behind familiar
scents of rosemary or sandalwood or even
of long unused perfumes. most times,
you disappear suddenly with nothing but
the fact that you left. you're not really
aware that you also leave me with the hope
of going after you and running along to
wherever the wind would carry us. but my
only guide would be my palm, my destiny:
tracing along the lines and counting the
routes I could take to reach wherever the road
could've led you; only to find that you're
too far away and each pathway would just
stumble me upon a dead end.