lost places

It’s a sad truth that through our lives, as we construct the building blocks of memories in an ever-changing landscape, that the scenery starts to change. We don’t expect for these foundations to slowly fade away; until one day they are no more than wisps of nothing.

I miss the beach off the gravel track, with the morbid nickname. The river water would do its delicate dance, lapping at the edges of the world as our footsteps found their way.

I miss the tunnel that never ends. In the darkness, when we all grab hands and run until our lungs could burst with the urgency of it all; and the echoes fly around like birds in the sky.

I miss the hidden field, where cars and bikes and civilization couldn’t reach. The warm sun beating down on the soft grass or lying back on the blanket to count the stars winking back at us like old friends.

I miss the skeleton houses on the lake, decrepit and old and filled with the lives of people before. Where we would climb over nature to snap the best photo shots and zoom in on these forgotten homes.

I miss the spot under the bridge, where the colors splashed across the canvas with purpose and meaning. And our fingertips turned blue from the paint, but it was ok because we were creating our own worlds.

I miss the ledge that overlooked the city most of all. Where I spent so many nights sleeping, and talking, and dreaming, and exploring, and fighting, and loving, and hoping. And while I knew the nooks and crannies of the city below, from up above I still felt the magic of possibility.

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