When memory does not serve forgetful minds
Consult the unkempt pages; I’ll do mine
The Era of Suburban Apathy
Of Pinky Promises and Blasphemy

When boredom struck, and this it always did,
We’d drive your car until the tires skid
We’d rather listen to static than news
Lost in reverie, not much to lose

Jumping picket fences hand in hand
Rowing your grandpa’s boat til it hit land
I’d yell fractured beats, raucous refrains
You’d pluck your guitar’s strings, neighbors complained

When drops of rain cut through the humid air
You’d twirl about with flowers in your hair
I’d trace the ones that fell down in the sand
And there we’d spend our days, with nothing planned

Those flowers, now preserved with utmost care
Rest between pages starting to wear
Reminders of the prologue of our lives
Before the race to win or just survive

Our sanctuary, long since disappeared,
In your brush strokes now remains revered
Ghosts of summers past, i reminisce
Dwelling too long, though, would be remiss