Sometimes I almost remember
A small village of mostly sheep farms,
And little shops that are run out of people's homes.

And I almost remember
A forest I've been to a thousand times.
And sometimes the leaves are new.
And sometimes sharp icicles reflect light into my eyes.

And I see him.
And there's something about his eyes.
I recognize them.
They're just like mine.

Because something inside him is sad and dark and broken and bleeding.

And you can see it right through his eyes,
Almost.

But there's still a fire in his eyes.
A light.
Something that wasn't supposed to be
A permanent solution
But it stitched up the wound,
And he hasn't tried to do anything else for it since.

But my favorite almost-memory
About this place,
Is the little yellow house
With black shutters
And a second floor veranda,
On the top of a grassy green hill.
The house smells like black tea
And fresh apple pie.

I can almost remember.

But then I don't.