One day, we might make it out.

We are loyal but young and weak. Fleeting joy, a rush of euphoria, a momentary epiphany. We are what comes when you lie awake for hours on end with nothing but thoughts. We are what happens on those long, lonely drives through nowhere. We are bits and pieces waiting to be fashioned together into something both marvelous and handmade, like a scrapbook or a quilt lying in the living room of your grandparent's old home, beside the crackling fire. But all, in the end, are left behind to wait. And wait we will. For we are loyal. But young. But weak.