All it takes is a photograph
Or a line from a book,
A song.
Old sweatshirts soaked in memories smelling of cologne and Autumn bonfires,
The sleeve still bearing your fingerprints and whenever I wear it I feel your hand like a phantom limb
haunting me.
The rivers of my mind flow like saltwater rapids in remembrance of my tears,
Bringing up sepia-toned scenes and late-night conversations in hushed tones,
Every moment recorded and replaying, repeating
Like a trampoline timeline, stretching and bouncing me back to the beginning.
the Honest Poet 