You and me standing in that empty street, catching the first snow of the season on our tongues. I can still see you breathe in the corners of my mind, clouds of white escaping over lips almost blue.

Other days I still see you in that quiet room, playing guitar singing songs of hope and of a better future. Fingers on strings, hand gripping wooden neck, holding on like it was your only salvation.

 Life consists of all the memories we make, I wish I could take back what belongs to me but we share laughed out bottles and tear stained ticket stubs, our mutual life for a millisecond. These relics of remembrance, just like shipwrecks.

I pack out the box filled to the brim with burnt fingertips, jeans torn at the knees, summer smells, scars from battles and peace, maps to the land of make-believe, broken bones, dusty polaroids and discussions. Resurrecting memories from the ashes of yesterday, last week, last month, last year.

As the skies break open in hues of orange I raise my glass to late night memories and everything we had.

Kris

Kris, inspiration was always your forte

 

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