Run-on, run-on, run-on sentences.

Chalk creases the lines on the underbelly of my hands, the ones palm readers will trace with their fingertips, comparing them to tarot cards and zodiac signs. Lexi draws the moon and the comet swirls and I draw skyscrapers beneath the pedestals of blue teacups. We run across heavy pits of tar and gravel to reach my apartment doors. The heavy black doors with little silver studs. The three of us, Haeleigh, Lexi, and I, exhaust our limbs on the floor of my bedroom, sleeping deeply side by side. Six twitching eyelids. 

We hold hands and cross the city to grassy fields, wild, pounding speakers and thirty white tents. I finger the pages of handmade books with blank insides, and I wish there were lines on the pages. Peter walks on the outside of us, cradling my knuckles. We push our way to the front of the stage, bobbing heads, laughing, screaming in each other's ears. Hallelujah, hallelujah. Lexi and I sit in the basement, ironically named The Attic, we elevate to the roof garden, echo down the endless staircase. 

We fall asleep on the opposing hill of a taped-off lake, picnicking under helicopter trees. We sit in a dark, grey room, heavy with too many coats of paint. The ocean walls sweat against the music, seeping into open pores. We melt into the leather, praying for the fans to switch on. I watch the blinking lights mimic the vibrating strings, I catch glimpses of the train from the cracked blinds. I peel my eyelids from the red, the yellow, the green. I feel the notes in my empty water bottle. We sweat, we sing, we bend and unbend our cracking knees. We run on, run on into the night.