Memories Astir

They say you never forget your first love. When your body tingled with those new emotions even philosophers have trouble defining. That morning when you woke up with the fullest smile, utterly jubilant because of this one person. Those fresh summer days when evocations appear in its haze, those cool summer nights when the scent of those sleeping blades of grass wafts through the window screen. Such sweet smells.

When you look around your apartment you realize it’s all been the same. Maybe that chair moved a little, but it’s all the same. Unless you rid of all your possessions, you’ll reminisce. That gift you received for your birthday still sits in the drawer.

When I cry, it’s not for the sadness of losing those sweet summer days. But rather for how sweet those days really were. When I dream, it’s not for the hope that one day, maybe one day, this sweetness will return. I dream instead of never forgetting these precious memories. When I write, it’s not to lament over the fervor of love, for the words are the kindling to the flame, of my distant memories, all astir.


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