Pages of old

In a book upstairs - lives the pages of another life. 

The sweet joys - of days along the ocean and diving in. They remind me of all the year before this plagued one - and what can startle a late season. What getting lost and (totally) renewing really was. When tired was a compliment and toast to you. 

Swear it smells of long late drives home with the windows down - reaching out to everyone   - clearing our minds from crowded bars, circles of laughs, and “turn it up!” tunes -  so we could hear heartbeats and waves, till noon tomorrow.

I’d find close whispers and busied streets of traffic and hugging friends waiting - jokes long quieted and hungers still on the horizon. Worries of what never came. I’d remember every clever kindness, stumbling funny accidents and fast plans of my people - and I’d falter at the ease. 

I’d remember better, all we’ve put on hold. Or I have. 

So it stays closed - any romanced pages - like everything else of this whole damned time. It lives a room away and almost forgotten - like you and the miles between - here and the ocean.  

It temps an opening read, a new glorious page of entries - in tired evenings from return. It might tell me to get in that car and drive back. (It definitely will). 

     To fall into sands again.

     To start the band. 

     To have a Sunday like we planned. 

In the car going nowhere - just watching the ocean move. Letting the world be elsewhere. Dreamin’ on what should’ve been - and movin’ and groovin’ to happiness. To opening up and running down the street - and finding us all again. 

You (sweet past) have become the memory of what was - the benchmark of what ended. The waiting line to start the dance, the drink I should’ve stayed for.

. . .