6am silence, the fallen leaves, gold flecks in headlights remind me of Halloween and you’re always loudest in the dark.  
These memories are slipping. I hold them delicate as lace and then hurl myself at reality, hitting for the 50th, 60th, hundredth ******* time.
You are not lost. You’re in the Autumn air, laughing; smoking cigarettes though it never really suited you. ****** at 17, thinking everything was an omen for death.
We did grow old after all. But the clock stopped before the grey, the aches, the hindsight. Before midnight ticking over. Before we finished the conversation.