The same childhood cobble step
where we first tasted blood, injury and heartbreak
after getting caught cheating on a game of
are now used by lesser beings,
the baby flowers and the creek have dried and died out,
causing the rays to grow stronger.
The wind no longer tells our story, maybe he just chooses to be quiet,
for he’d like to keep the memory all to himself.
Photos I held on to before take off
have become just papers with faces on it, bygone,
edges now dust, detaching themselves from the memory
once clear, now very much tarnished by
nostalgia and constant updates/uploads on Facebook. How blasé.
3:30pm now, the sun’s resting on clouds.
Eight years ago, I wouldn’t be here writing on the terrace,
flaccid, I’d be rushing out to meet the rest; cold afternoons are rare!
But then again, eight years ago, I didn’t have a laptop.