Torn muscles and sore skin. So much more than hurt. The lemons and limes, all so sweet today. The Fridays of my mid-twenties. Being myself so strongly, and the hum of familiar tunes. Autumn music and the crisp air of iced coffee. Smells old and new. All kinds of plans and puzzle pieces. Skin's acclaimation to an ever-changing world. What can I forget today? Anything I'd like to, I suppose. What sometimes flows through my mind, I can only love. Or I can try, and sometimes wince at what decided to wedge itself into prominence. Or laugh, at what all so sweetly swirls in the air of my thoughts. The people I've known, and the heartfelt wishes of knowing better. What I might know well. How nostalgia is a third quarter equation. The lunch break of selfishness. Guitar effects as an interpretation. Poetry of late mornings. All that we could think of in a brief space of time. What we cannot grasp as inspiration. Control as an aimed arrow, the brushed cheek of life, and the tide. Air blowing in someone else's hair, looking so pretty. Seasons known so well for something remembered. Emotions you only wished someone else would understand. But there was the fault of dreaming. We must wake someday. To the cold air of summer mornings. They too, hold something fragrant. Smile at all you accomplish, and blink in bliss at what you did. Ah, the selfishness of your own place on this planet. Deserving to be still with the dew that carries on. And drive, if it keeps you moving.
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