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.