collide

Stagnant air weaves between your fingers; gets caught in your hair.  It dreads the same event you do, except you’ve decided to stop running.  

Ahead are alien buildings ravaged by time, for time has learned to be cruel.  The sky can feel the implosion of your insides, the chemical reaction at the edge of your throat.  So, it sends you fuel:  it becomes reckless and grey, forcing enough water to the earth to contradict the season.