we’ve walked the same path. Countless times. and it’s hard to remember the days where the sun would be up, its glow casting a blush on your pale lips, exposed shins, much easier to think about tomorrow morning when the sky is still black & void; your breath in the wind, visible, the cold sending pink to your ears.

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inane.

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then, we would kick at the dirt, the fallen pinecones, the leaves, the slick asphalt.

we would be silent, if not for the scuffling of our shoes; and i wonder. if we took a photo every day, of our legs reared back and ready to swing, metronomes suspended, would we capture the ephemeral thing that is peace? the insane notion that drives insanity; each photo, a bit less light, a bit more familiarity, more wild glints in eyes, invisible quirked lips or breaths smothered; each photo, a spiral. each photo, a moment.

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and it is inane.