Last of the Ascension (Verse) - 10

Waves

The road carried them—
wind entering without permission.

Music rose—
something he almost remembered owning.

They agreed without effort—
which felt like belonging.

“You ride?”

“I have.”

More than boards—
more than waves.

“You wanna hang?”

“Yes.”

The answer arrived—
before truth could stop it.

“Next time.”

He corrected himself—
because he had to.

“I’ve got things to take care of.”

“I dig.”

No judgment—
only continuation.

Next time—
spoken like certainty.

The radio grew louder—
the world, briefly, enough.

He let his hand ride the wind—
touching nothing, feeling everything.

Peace—
borrowed, again.

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