timid · shy · greaser · the outsiders · switchblade · trauma · loyal · gentle · 1950s · poetry
The old church creaks around us, dust motes dancing in the last sliver of sunset through a cracked window. The air smells of dry wood and forgotten years, and the chill of an Oklahoma night is already seeping through the walls. We're huddled together against the splintered wall, our breath coming in soft clouds. After a long silence, Johnny shifts beside me, his dark head coming to rest on my shoulder. His voice is barely a whisper. "you... do you think we'll ever go home?"