There's an old road where I spent much of my childhood back in England that I miss more than anything else
I tell all of my friends "Yeah Virginia is ******* beautiful, but you haven't seen real green grass until you've been to that small farming village" yeah I'm from the sticks it wasn't strange to come home to stray sheep which had escaped from Farmer Neville
But where was I? the road that absolute beauty on one side proud oak trees some of which are older than the entire United States covered in a sickly yellow moss chlorophyll green shafts of summer when we walked around in shorts and t-shirts the other side is a field of grain which was set ablaze once a day when the sun came down to plant a kiss on the horizon and we spent countless hours playing on that tire swing
Now that road is closed off overgrown after we left on our transatlantic journey nobody was there to take care no more children whose laughter echoed off of those proud oak trees and I do miss that road I don't regret leaving it life wasn't meant to be spent longing for old roads