In picture frames
with dusty grains
or throbbing veins
in my brain's narrow lanes.
To love, to loathe,
or to simply define
memories alone,
are only half mine.
In journal entries
of my twenties
or apple trees
luring us with yellow canaries.
To love, to loathe,
or to simply define
memories alone,
are only half mine.
In letters without envelopes
penned in wild dreams and hysterical hopes,
or the gentle slopes
carrying our laughs as musical notes.
To love, to loathe,
or to simply define
memories alone,
are only half mine.
