This vernal air elicits every worn out memory.  A string of phrases clutter my mind, those reminiscent of angsty high school poetry. These triggered states have a tendency to draw me backwards into the night, letting the snapshots blur together into a beautiful movement.

A zoetrope. A thousand zoetropes. The flashbacks begin at once, and as I sift through these mental folders, I realize that the only sort of closure I was given happened that July 1st, four years go.

You closed the glass door. And so these memory trails of wet bare feet on hot pavement and burnt out streetlamps are all I understand, because perhaps that detour on 6th Concession was a mixed blessing.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s