Fondness found between
two bookends carried us
beyond the plastic cars
zooming home for youthful
tales, next to carved cursive
spelling the name of future keepsake,
leaving the family crest in Ireland.
These journals were of fiction,
of escapist ventures, that wander
between adolescence and
a child’s intrigue in fully grown male.
Candid snapshots of relatively
pointless moments permanently
keep watch, spying on us,
as if to say, “stay like this,
we love it like this.”


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