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10-4 coded shouts
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anonface
The air is restless,
a kite tugging at its string.
He leans into the wind,
bones lengthening faster than his shadow.
Laughter spills from the street—
a language he is only just learning,
half‑shout, half‑secret.
In the mirror,
a stranger waits:
eyes lit with something unspoken,
hair falling into rebellion.
The door slams behind him,
not in anger,
but in urgency—
as if the world might vanish
if he doesn’t catch it now.
Pavement sparks beneath his shoes,
friends orbiting like loose planets,
the day a drumbeat
that swallows his name whole.
.
