It's a sing-a-long,
to some sacred, long-forgotten song.
It's a late night discussion over dark beers
about all the love that eluded,
and all the albums that we wasted.

It's a counter-culture night,
playing Dylan's Highway 61
on vinyl amidst ribbons of incense,
and blankets our grandmas made for us.

It's blacking out from Zach's concoction of
***, coke, and lime, only to wake
to Rachel's black hair and amber eyes.

It's finding joy in philosophical discussions,
in coming up with novel terms for being drunk
off our *****,
in trying to make God make sense,
in watching the sunrise at some breakfast diner.

It's holding a newborn nephew,
telling your sister you love her.

It's realizing the sweetness of time,
reminding yourself to stay alive,
sipping on co-bought wine,
developing love without clear rhyme.

It's a gift without a why.
It's a dream without an alarm clock.
It's a kindness to which you must ascribe.