My knuckles turn white from holding onto a foraged memory of an existence of what we used to call hope and it will shout into the void, echos of shadows that dance in the back of my brain that circumstance could not fore see that picture of us hanging from inside a two story house somewhere lost in rural California where white lace suffocated your skin and red silk flowed over the scars of my past lovers there is a smile that is shown under neath a cascade of fabric which displays a world in which you to could have wanted that white picked fence in the home we built in our dreams but reality is like a hurricane and eases all the evidence of what was once love