We’ re watching ourselves prepare to
shatter in slow motion, like how a vase
seems to slow down before it splinters on concrete.

The stones we gave flight to, finally
coming home to this glass house.

We hoped we could write on them and
send them into the ether, and they
would sail on the breeze like paper planes.

But our magic could not perform alchemy,
and our stones could not become pages.

We could blame it all on being young,
On reckless hormones left to run,
From passionate to silver tongues
At first, little by little, then all at once.