When I think of past loves
I get lost in the feeling
of memories-

For the boy with tattoos
I smell musty perfume
and recall the recklessness
that raged through that summer.

For the boy on the bike
I see crisp fall nights
that were plagued with regret
of not leaving sooner.

For the boy who drove the jeep
I hear distant cars on the street
as we're stumbling in skates
wearing smiles that we faked.

But for the boy who plays guitar,
defining you is hard.
You outlasted every season,
different phase and stupid craze.
When I think of you I think of years
several smiles, several tears.
There is no scent that triggers your face,
no sound nor touch nor place.
I only fathom of today, and as for memories-
they're still being made.