Perhaps the beauty of a happening
can only endure through its own ending
My symphony of summer camp
was composed of tap dancing and bed jumping
a girl named Summer and one named True
fireworks in a garden and a telling of Twelfth Night
I cried while saying goodbye
and I cried on the drive home
Maybe that’s what life is
individual strands of souls
who happen upon togetherness for a short while
patching together a quilt of shared experience
with a knowing that they will soon return home
Does any of it ever really escape us
Does the naive nectar of first love
really succumb to drought
The recipe for nostalgic potential consists of honeyed hearts
spinning through apple orchards
hand in hand
Never again will these ingredients be kneaded together
with the precision of these fingertips
and the prints they leave behind
Why are some seemingly so proficient in forgetting
What do they do in place of stepping out
to retrieve their own filmy eyed selves
from graveyard meandering
I ask- Is it haunting or honouring
madness or memorial
clinging or enduring love
that keeps us coming back
And of course
it is all at once
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