Hidden Track.

A hundred miles directly into a memory cinerarium, to pay my respects. These exospheric walls cave in and choke to death. Nestling me into asphyxia, and the end.

I’m a revenant awakened. Roaming, reminiscing, wearing these scars like medals and the area codes like a holocaust branding. 

The image of us standing on the corner of Hawthorne and 1st street, wistful and awkward. An embrace that elicited crayola sparks and adolescent elation. Five years growing, uncoupling along a timeline of obsoletism. Distant and critical, we were strangers all along.

The Queens of the streets, the hell raisers in band tees and cheap wristbands. The tribulations were armor. The insults were building blocks. Our minds were wild stallions, free from all that’s saint or sin.

It remains within us, the mist of the past.