Stained coffee mugs that echo foregone conversations.
Scratched tables that have felt a number of hands.
Of evenings spent singing old songs.
An inbox filled with years of messages.
Monochromatic photographs.
Creaking of steps over a barren wooden stage.
Of red curtains and green rooms.
A Chinese whisper in a boring class.
Washed hair and cool breeze.
Fog sheeted dawns and dew washed foliage.
Long walks taken singularly with ear phones.
Warm hugs on cold days.
Scent of old books and rained earth.
Of nights spent under the stars.
Fresh paint on clean sheets.
The comfort of re-watching movies.
Washed clothes and shrunken sweaters.
Pink skies and orange clouds.
Strummed guitars and beaten buckets.
A hot cup of tea brewing in the kitchen.
The sting of pain balms and ice packs.
Pawed love and human wrath.
Long telephone gossips and laughter.
A blue wardrobe with grey t shirts.
Nail biting last over matches.
Yellowed newspaper cuttings of heartthrobs.
Lives locked up in cartons rediscovered on cleaning.
Of midnight wishes and growing older.
Family feasts beyond illuminated walls.
The loss of vivid imagination to morbid rationalisation.
Of plans to travel and conquer the world.
A soft board pinned with memories.
Now, I want to go live a few of my dreams.
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