My thoughts morph into the stuff of a Summer afternoon:
A long time ago, before I grew white tendrils of age in my hair, and that still lone Gardenia softened our song, you played with me in the sand. We opened up hidden evenings and my only thought was to be touched by you.
Your rough skin was pocked with Marijuana seeds and the twigs of collaboration. Sky-high and pinked our conversation was in your cupped hands on my soft walls.
Is it any wonder that I loved your song?
Now I am stuccoed and old and it is in my heart alone that this explication of a memory remains alive in the