The tattered laid bricks we young reluctantly call home, in gaze to feast to live again as once new lovers tip toe fluttery footsteps toward the desolate vanishing point.
But beginning forward I won't find myself locked between a memory.
Like battered homes of old we do so to find the leaks and breaks. Within withered structures of bone and ice we collect fragments off the pavement to restore.
But as a whole we never were. Like lovers fail to see in bloom.