The wolf should've snapped her neck.
The deer should've bolted.
hat's the law, right?
Kill or run.
How it's supposed to be.
How it always was.
But here they are -
him in a secondhand suit
smelling like old rain and bad decisions,
her draped in a dress made of soft mistakes.
He's thinking,
another kill won't fix the hunger.
She's thinking,
another escape won't fix the fear.
And outside the glass,
the world hums along,
hungry for blood,
hungry for failure,
hungry for the beautiful ruin of it all.
They lean into each other
like broken doors swinging on the last hinge,
not lovers,
not saviors,
just two things too tired to keep lying.
The world wants them to hate,
to run,
to tear each other apart.
What they do instead -
this slow, brutal, stupid tenderness -
is the worst kind of rebellion.
The glass between them and the street
is spidered with cracks -
each one a little white lie the world told,
each one a rule they broke.
He's melting at the edges now,
becoming a man, becoming a memory,
becoming something the wolf was never meant to be.
She shimmers,
not prey anymore,
not even real maybe,
just some miracle walking
through the wreckage.
Sirens smear across the sky,
time drips down the walls,
and still they sit -
choosing each other in a world that stopped believing.
This is what survival looks like sometimes:
not teeth,
not speed,
but a hand on a shoulder,
a weight leaned into,
a promise made with nothing but breath.
and they sit shoulder to shoulder,
defying the ugly machines that built them,
trading the last thing that matters:
the stupid, beautiful, suicidal act
of choosing tenderness
when nothing else makes sense.
Lenox, Massachusetts
Boho Dreams of Space and Time 