What i would give for things to be prosaic. I wouldn't even mind the dull aspect. But it's more than that.
It's the beauty of familiar.. when nothing is anymore.
Not anywhere.
I remember in winter.. trees cacooning themselves in ice, they glisten and thaw with fragility. Packed everywhere leaves upon leaves on branches, one by one changing into colors the sun here has never seen. Congregating into piles with feelings hidden underneath. Then blooming into purity, holding growth and waving shade over our heads.
Thickened summer breath under a humid sky. Asphalt hazing. City scapes and twilights faked. Seaside Heights and boardwalk madness.

Love and home catacombed throughout everything.. places.. scents.. people.. hours.. roadways..

Where are the things that are sacred, and to whom are they for?

We could have walked the canal to New Hope if we wanted, maybe in October when the trees are still vermillion and the sun peeking through would still offer glimpses of warmth. We would have been in a thousand peoples footsteps, a thousand of our own. We'd pass history, and glance as we walked by the ghosts of our younger selves. You say it doesn't matter, whats gone is gone. But it's not about who i am, or what i have done. It's what i have left behind. The things i cannot take with me. Nothing here holds anything for me.. When it does, will you understand? I'm hesitatingly in limbo, my life in the half light. New memories are charging in with great force and luster, i see them and wait for them to mean more than what they can.