Summers of golden rod chewed to a pulp and juniper berries wrinkling with time
Wooden forts abandoned in search of a new location
mosquito bites speckling young legs later to be pressed with x’s that cure the urge to itch
Hours spent in the cold, isolation becoming a comfort when accompanied with an angsty album
Memories of biking turned to racing ending up with crashing and the marks that will arrive either on sight or appear and stay for days later
Nights by fireside surrounded by warmth and the smell of gasoline one to **** pests the other to dull your senses and ability to remember
These traces that i can barely follow back are like animal tracks slowly being buried as winter ensues on its journey to engulf everything
Maybe its best that these memories stay faint and become indistinct for who knows what I will find within the wolves den