We were smaller then,
when days stretched long and sunlit,
and the world seemed infinite
beneath the shade of maple trees.
Our knees were always scraped,
but we never felt the sting
for too long—
healing was as simple as a laugh
or a distraction,
something fleeting,
like catching fireflies in jars
we never meant to keep.
I still hear echoes
of our voices in the empty fields
we used to fill with dreams,
before we learned
how fragile they were.
The grass was always greener
and the sky,
closer.
Now, those summers live only in fragments,
a worn-out photograph at the bottom of a drawer,
the scent of rain on pavement
that brings back a memory
I can’t fully grasp.
And maybe that’s the way it’s meant to be—
untouched,
unspoiled by knowing
what we couldn’t see then.
We were always running,
toward or away from something,
but now I find myself walking back
to those places,
knowing I can never really return.
Still,
sometimes I catch myself
pausing—
just to listen for the laughter
we left behind.
Written: 2024
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