Even now, the gardens of our past refurbish themselves in the heat of my ongoing halt against time. Perhaps for someone like me, idyll glimpses of love reside only in the solitude of lyricism, open windows, those comatose streetlights, and the interstate of dreams.

                                           —

I’m sitting on the walkway, smoking a cigarette, watching the stars; thinking of you. I’m reminiscent of when we laid out here doing the same exact thing, except a prolonged addition of past drunken ramblings that resonate with me now. I miss your voice, and the way your laugh sounded beside me. I miss knowing I could turn to you in the same room. I guess I just miss you tonight. I’ll keep this with myself, but I want myself to remember that I missed you yesterday, I miss you now, and I’ll miss you tomorrow.

I remember the names of flowers we uncovered during each perennial continuation of days, months and years. I can recall how quickly the seasons changed — every halcyon sense of realism diminishing into abstraction as we fell out of touch.